Repercussions
by Ameraka
Summary: Connie and Jason are in love, and one of their only dilemmas is whether to let those closest to them know about their relationship. But trouble is brewing in another part of the world; the man who calls himself Will has unfinished business with the Whittakers, and he will stop at nothing to accomplish his plans. Sequel to Aftermath. Rated T.
1. Kisses

_A/N: Here is another chapter, finally. In a new story! This is kind of a prologue in a way, because the content is different than the subsequent chapters, for the most part. It's sort of a bridge between _Aftermath_ and the rest of this story, although this takes place several months later. _

_I am not totally sure about it, for reasons that you may or may not find out as you read it..._

_As always, if you want to read more author's notes, check my profile. :)_

_And of course, reviews appreciated. :)_

* * *

Connie lay in the grass under the willow tree. Jason sat beside her, looking out at the lake, water and sky reflected in his eyes. She wondered what he was thinking. Sometimes he was so far away, and she wished she could go there with him, wherever it was. Even if it was somewhere painful. As much as they'd shared over the past several months, in many ways he was still an enigma to her. Although it would probably take a lifetime to know the depths of his soul, probably not even then.

She looked forward to each day, finding something new about him- a thought, a touch, a look, he had never given her before.

She sat up, her ankle jabbing her with an unexpected stab. It still hurt, even two months after they'd taken her cast off. She wondered if there was still a shard of bone they hadn't found—that's what it felt like—but the doctors and x-rays told her she was fine.

Jason looked across the blue tablecloth on the grass where the leftovers of their picnic supper sat.

"Are you okay?" he said.

She hadn't known she'd reacted; she'd become good at hiding how much it hurt. But she could never hide it from him; he knew almost intuitively when she was in pain.

"I'm fine. Just my ankle again."

He stepped over to her. "How bad is it?"

"The usual." She smiled to reassure him. "Nothing to worry about."

"You sure?"

"Yes, Jason. If it weren't, I'd tell you."

He sat down beside her. "You don't always tell me."

"Neither do you."

"Touché." He smiled wryly, a lock of hair falling over his forehead, brushed there by the breeze. He was tanned, healthy, a far cry from what he'd looked like eight months ago when they'd rescued him. But she knew his old injuries still pained him, especially the bullet wound in his chest, and his left shoulder, the damage making it impossible to return to the way it was before.

She took his left hand in hers, traced its strong outline, the scars at the center of it, reminding her of the horrific things that had happened to him. But each scar was a part of him, and so they were beautiful to her.

She looked up into his eyes, blue, intense, beneath well-defined eyebrows, at the moment slightly upturned in inquisition. She brought her hand to his face, touched it beneath the jagged scar that traced his cheekbone. He'd told her it made him look like a "tough character"; she'd said it only made him look more dashing.

Electricity flared in the space between her hand and his face. She trembled; everything else receded around her—the birdsong, the lap of water on the shore, the wind rustling the willow branches—as longing seized her to be even closer to him than she already was.

He must have felt the same, for he leaned toward her, eyes holding hers, until his face eclipsed hers in shadow and his cheek touched her own.

His hand embraced her chin. She closed her eyes, and their lips met. She grasped the back of his neck, leaned into him.

They had only kissed twice before, the first, the day she had gotten her cast off, so quickly she'd barely had time to register it was happening before it ended, the second, two weeks ago, stolen in the kitchen of a deserted Whit's End. This time was different. They were completely alone, no one to see, no one to interrupt.

She immersed herself in his presence, everything that was him. Thrills trembled through her. She could not get enough of him, as if he were a celestial drink that could never satisfy. She could barely breathe, but he was so wonderful she didn't care if she suffocated. He was all the life she needed.

Her fingers entangled in his hair; she kissed his chin, the tip of his ear, the back of his neck. She had always wanted to kiss him there for some reason.

Pressed against him, her hand slipped beneath his shirt, meeting the rippling muscles there. Touched the knot of a scar beneath his heart. Like a warning, telling her to go no further. She pulled her hand away, but he kissed her lips again, hungrily. She hesitated, then returned his passion, the heat between them flaring like a flame that could never be extinguished.

He kissed her neck, beneath her chin. But a moment later, he pulled back, turned away, cheeks flushed beneath his tan.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I can't—I mean, it's because we want this that we can't—"

Her own cheeks burned. "I guess we are getting…carried away. I mean…" She brushed back a strand of hair that had fallen in front of her face, looked away.

"I'd never want you to feel like I was pressing you to go—too far—because it's not what I want. Well, you know what I mean." He smoothed his hair back, adjusted his red shirt.

She nodded. "I guess I just thought—we know enough not to get carried away."

"Thinking that you know better can be dangerous. This is probably something we should talk about—what our boundaries are."

"Even if it is awkward."

He laughed. "Yeah. We might as well get it over with." He leaned back against the tree trunk. "It probably isn't the best thing for us to be alone this much."

"We should do things with other people more, like we used to," she said. "It's just been so hard to keep this a secret, and now that I can walk—sort of—we can go on more adventures together. But—" The words hovered on her tongue; she dreaded it. "Maybe we shouldn't keep _us_ a secret any longer." She let out a breath. It had been said.

"It's been fun sneaking around," he said, "The spy in me loves it—but I think it's time we told someone. It would help keep us accountable."

"That would be good," she said, cheeks hot again. "I think….well, Penny's suspicious. She keeps giving me funny looks, especially when I talk about you, but she doesn't say anything."

"I think Dad knows too. Or he's pretty sure. But I suppose he doesn't want to assume anything."

"I think we should tell them. Penny and Whit. Mom too. And then—just let the rest find out for themselves."

The willow branches danced in his eyes, their tangling shadows flickering over his face. She sat down next to him, against the tree. He took her hand. Kissed it. "And I think_ this_ should be as far as we go," he said. "For now. What do you think?"

"I think—I can live with that." She smiled. And they looked out at the boats sailing across Trickle Lake, until the red tint to the sun told them that it was time to pack up and go home.

As Connie tucked the picnic basket in the trunk, Jason watched her flawless movements, her graceful form. He was glad he'd stopped himself; he already regretted how far he'd let his passion take over. He loved her, yes; because of that, he needed to be the responsible party. He was older, supposedly wiser, and physically stronger. He had gone too far before, long ago, with someone else. Not what non-Christians would call too far, but still. He never wanted to hurt Connie. He had to protect her, hold her precious soul in his care. Her beautiful, fragile heart was worth any price, any hardship, any indignity he would ever have to endure.

He would even go through…_ that_…again to keep her safe. Had been willing to, with Gray. It hadn't come to that. Still, he always had her safety in mind. Gray might be in a maximum security prison, but Will was still out there, along with other threats. Always.

He fingered the pistol at his hip. He was thankful she hadn't found it there. She might have thought he was overreacting; on the other hand, it might scare her. Perhaps he _was_ being paranoid. He still had the nightmares, though the fear had lessened the more he was with her. But you could never be too careful….

"Come on, Jason!" she said. He walked to the car, and she drove them back, under the bright descending sun.


	2. Success

_A/N As contrasting with the last chapter, this chapter is rather dark, __not just because of content, but because it's in the bad guys' POV,  
mostly in Gray's. Like CS Lewis said about writing the _Screwtape Letters_, it can be oppressive to dwell in that mindset for a long time. Not just evil, but his indifference to human life in general, his totally self-focused psyche. I sort of need to recover from that, and get back to people that have some good in their hearts. Who will be the focus of the other chapters; this was just necessary to set things up for what's to come._

_btw, in case there's any confusion, Joseph Lang is the real name of the man who calls himself Will._

_ And Gray is calling himself Starr at the moment. (I'm not even sure if I know his real name. ;)_

* * *

Joseph Lang stood looking out of his cabin window. The sun rose over the trees, spreading golden light through their branches, creating a mosaic of quivering light and shadow on the forest floor. Beyond the trees, the mountain slope gleamed with sunlight, its peak still cloaked with patches of snow.

This place was remote, no doubt about that. A good place to strategize, away from the frenzied pulse of Washington, DC. Not being reelected had turned out to be a good thing, after all. Here he had achieved clarity, balance, that he had never had anywhere else. He knew his vision was the right one; he was not split into two people like when he was a senator. He had felt himself slowly going crazy, not sure which was his true face: his mask, or his secret self. Now he knew. He could truly embrace who he was, not having to hide from anyone since he was, largely, alone with his thoughts and his few loyal aides.

It had been relaxing the first three months, getting away from it all, focusing on planning, but now, even with the daily walks he took in the Montana wilderness, he was bursting at the seams. He needed to accomplish something.

He had assembled his pieces. He was ready to make the first move. And yet—several crucial pieces remained. Oh, he could do without them. But he wasn't going to settle, especially since he had unfinished business.

Two men, relatively insignificant, shouldn't matter so much. But still, he needed to deal with them.

Why hadn't he? Gray had tried. But the man was incompetent—

No, not entirely true. Gray had performed well on other missions. But last time, he had lost his edge. And he was paying the price. He had forfeited his position, and now was languishing in a prison in Virginia.

Lang had obtained a new freelancer, loyal, precise, exceptional at a multitude of skills, and most importantly, ruthless, and capable of carrying out a swift strike without getting caught.

He sat down at his desk, and dialed a number. Finally, he was getting something done.

This would be a test drive, a component of his international plan carried out on a small scale. It would kill two birds with one stone, since it would also set in motion the events that would take down the Whittakers, a thorn that had been in his side too long for his comfort.

"Hello," said the voice at the other end of the line.

"Yes. I have a job for you."

A laugh, low and full of delight. "Finally. It had better be a good one."

"It is. Here are the details…."

ll

Gray lay back on his bunk, staring at the blank ceiling. It had nearly killed him, living in this prison for five months. It was better than what he'd expected, anyway; he'd expected to get labeled enemy combatant, his rights taken away, and stuffed in a secret detention center for the rest of his life.

But he had never been incarcerated before; had never expected to. Only several days after arriving, he had gone crazy, seriously injured some of the guards; they'd straightjacketed him, and stuffed him in solitary confinement for two months.

There, after a few days nearly unconscious with despair, he had learned to cope. He had done what little physical exercise he could, and more importantly, mental exercises, to keep his mind sharp. He had determined, in that dark, dank little cell, that he was not going to let them win. Even if he lived here the rest of his life, they would not break him. Not even the black-suited government agents that came to break up the monotony with their questions, their rather half-hearted beatings.

When they finally released him from solitary, he had found new peace and purpose. He would escape, or die trying.

It had taken the last few months to plan. But he had accumulated a significant amount of cash through card games with the other prisoners, which he had used to obtain certain seemingly innocuous items from the guards. The key to his escape was also his weekly downfall: the agents that came to interrogate him.

Will had betrayed him; he would never betray Will. Not because he had any loyalty or affection for the man, but because he was not going to give in, not going to let them take away his dignity.

The agents were coming again today. This would set his plan in motion.

If it didn't work, well—

His heart sunk at the very thought of it not working. But it would work. He would make it work. If not, he would try again. And again. Until he was free, or dead. Because he could not live like this, trapped between nowhere and nowhere, a shadow life, the life of a ghost, or a slave.

A guard strode down the hallway, stopped in front of his cell. Carter. He was always out to get him, because that time Gray had gone crazy and tried to escape, he'd paralyzed the guard's friend by breaking his neck.

Carter banged his nightstick on the bars of the cell. "Guess who's coming today?" he said. "Your special guests. You love their company, don't you? I like it when they come, too. Especially when you come out of that room with bruises on your face."

Gray resisted the urge to stand, to stare the guard down. Bravado didn't accomplish anything in here, not with the guards anyway. Power was on their side, now that Will had abandoned him.

Will, who had let him rot in here—

Gray knew he deserved this for letting Jason prevail, but he wasn't going to wallow in self-pity like he had the first few days in that hole. He was not going to mourn his affiliation with Will, either. He'd never liked to be tied too long to one employer, anyway. He was best free.

Bang! The guard slammed the bars again. "What you thinking about, prisoner?"

"Nothing."

"You plotting something?"

"No."

His denial only made the guard more furious. _You can't win with this guy,_ thought Gray_. Being detached or belligerent only gets the same result. _

"You want me to come in there? I'll get the truth outta you."

"I sincerely doubt that."

The guard cocked his head. "You're so high and mighty, aren't you. Think you're untouchable because you're a 'government asset.' I'd make what those agents did look like nothing, after what you did to Bill." The man's face reddened with anger. He took the keys off of his belt, held by a chain, and slid one into the lock. "I think it's time to teach you a lesson."

He entered the cell. Gray took a deep breath. He had to act nonchalant, not lose face in front of this guard.

The door shut with a click. In front of him, the guard reached toward Gray's face. Gray turned away, looked at the opposite wall. "Such a pretty face. You wouldn't mind if I messed it up a little, would you?" He slid his nightstick underneath his chin, lifting it.

In a lightning-swift strike, Gray grabbed it. He rose, facing Carter. Pulled with all his strength.

And then, a thought jumped into his head. _I can't make a scene here. It might delay my plans of escape._

He let go of the club. His words had always been one of his best weapons, anyway. "You are aware of what the warden would do if he caught you breaking protocol?"

"I don't need you to quote the rulebook to me."

"Then you know you'd get the boot. If you get nothing else through your thick skull, you must at least get that being without a job is not a good thing."

"It'd almost be worth it."

"But you aren't going to do it, are you."

"One of these days, I'll find a way. Then, you'll wish you'd never stepped foot in this place."

_By then, I'll be long gone_, thought Gray.

"Everything okay in here?" said a voice outside the cell. Dawson. Mustached, short, stocky, but powerful. In more ways than one.

"It's fine," Gray said. "He was just checking up on me."

"Not up to any mischief today, are you, Starr?"

"Not today, no," said Gray, responding to the alias they thought was his real name.

"Good. It's time for your next session. The agents have arrived early."

The interrogations had become routine, but he still dreaded them. In an odd way, though, he also looked forward to them. They broke up the monotony of daily life.

After they handcuffed him, Dawson and Carter escorted him down the hallway, down the elevator. Down to the lower level, what was popularly known as 'the hole'. His cell was set up so that it was monitored remotely by the government. No one in the prison could tap into the security that had been constructed there; security was handled by the agents. It would make it both harder and easier to escape.

Inside the small, windowless room, a dim light flickering in the ceiling, the agents were waiting for him. The woman standing, the man sitting opposite the chair Gray was expected to sit in.

Gray's breath caught in his throat. Fear still gripped him whenever he approached the cell that had crushed his soul for sixty days. But he didn't let it show; he knew the agents had set it up this way to rattle him, and he wasn't going to give them the satisfaction. Or Carter for that matter.

The guards set him in the chair, and shut the door behind them.

The woman tucked her auburn hair behind her ear, and sauntered up to him. She was usually the bad cop. Not always, which was sometimes a nice little twist. The man leaned forward, elbow resting on his knee. His gray eyes, beneath dark expressive eyebrows, locked on Gray. He usually didn't have the stomach for interrogations; they were his duty, nothing more. The woman, on the other hand, relished them.

They never used each other's names, so Gray had come up with some random ones. The man he called Lane, the woman Jordyn.

"So," said Jordyn. "How has your vacation been?"

"To tell you the truth, it's been a little boring without you. I've been looking forward to your next visit. The company here…it's just not the same." She was probably in her late thirties or early forties, but she was fit and trim, and she looked striking in her well-tailored suits. Not that he was really interested in her, but even someone as self-disciplined as he was felt a certain hunger for feminine company, cut off from it for months.

She stepped behind him, put her hand on his shoulder. Leaned over, and whispered in his ear. "I'm not surprised. You know, I've missed our visits too. It's been…too long."

Was she playing at good cop now? He resisted the need to define, to categorize; assuming too quickly what was going on could result in severe miscalculation of his reactions.

"You rushed here in order to see me earlier than usual. I'm touched."

"Yes, well, there's a lot we have to cover today."

"Our superiors are becoming impatient," said Lane. "Most normal interrogation methods don't work on you. We can't even threaten your loved ones, because you have no one that you care about that we know of."

"He's a true sociopath," said Jordyn. "He's incapable of any feeling as deep as love. Or hate. Even pain does not affect him as it would others."

"But there is one thing that you do feel. Pride in your abilities, skills, accomplishments."

"And the other side of the coin, of course." Jordyn leaned down, looking into his eyes. "It's probably the most effective way to break a prisoner of any type. Why do we always hesitate to use it? Because it's stripping others of their humanity, so it's as if we have reduced our own humanity. But why don't we just cut to the chase, get it over with? In your case, there's so little humanity left I don't see the problem. We've been given the green light, in any case."

He wondered what she was talking about. Good tactic though; not knowing what was coming next produced fear in the subject. Though at the moment he was more curious than afraid.

Lane stood. Looked down at him with something akin to pity in his eyes. "We have heard that the prisoners here respect you. Not only for what you did to the guards. For what you have done to some of them. There's a mystique about you because you're above it all, and your ambiguous status under the law adds to this.

"But for these reasons, there are also prisoners who bear a grudge against you. Your status undermines theirs. All who have attacked you have been taken down, but some have been waiting for their chance. "

"You even put several guards in the hospital," said Jordyn. "But since your trial is still pending, you have not yet been punished for those crimes. They want justice."

"You have one more chance," said Lane. "Tell us Will's identity. Then this can all be over. We can transfer you to another prison, where no one knows you."

Gray looked away, studying a crack in the wall.

"If not," said Jordyn, stepping behind him, her hand resting on his shoulder again, "we will let each of your enemies into this cell, one by one. They will have impunity for anything they do, because we control the surveillance in here, not the warden. If you have still not had enough, well, we may as well let them have a free-for-all." She looked at Lane. "I don't think there will be much left of him after that, do you?"

"The thing is, he'll be so broken, that anything we ask, he'll be ready to answer. Listen, Starr. I don't like you—you're cold, ruthless, and you deserve to be locked up here the rest of your life. But I'm not the kind of person that enjoys witnessing cruelty. No one deserves that, in my opinion. For your sake, please, just tell us what we want to know."

Gray smirked. "You've got this good cop thing down, I've got to admit. And you—" he looked at Jordyn—"I'm not totally sure what your angle is."

She grabbed the front of his prison uniform. "You think we're playing games? This is real. We aren't bluffing."

"I'm not sure the government would authorize something so…unconventional."

"Will is a top priority threat. Anyway, our tactic here is not so different from the concept of rendition." She stepped over to the door. Opened it.

The man that stood guard just happened to be Carter. A twinge of apprehension hit Gray.

"Bring in the first prisoner."

Carter nodded, spoke into his radio.

Fear trembled through Gray, though he tried to stifle it, get himself under control. Clear his mind.

If they did this, it could come close to breaking him. Might even do so. And it could damage him permanently, spoil his chances of escape.

He had to act now.

"Wait," he said. "I've changed my mind. I'll tell you my secrets."

Jordyn almost looked disappointed. "You sure _you're_ not just bluffing?"

He nodded. "It's not worth…that."

"Smart move. But I didn't think you of all people would give in so easily." She turned to the guard. "Wait. We might still bring him in."

They shut the door again.

"Well?" said Jordyn. "We don't have all day."

Gray stood. Moved his hand ever so slightly, catching the plastic key inside his sleeve, which he'd paid a guard handsomely for. Stepped toward Jordyn.

"Sit down," said Lane.

"I will only tell my secret to her."

"That's ridiculous. You'll tell us both or not at all."

"I like her. She's a lot like me in many ways. You—you're just like most of them, afraid to get your hands dirty." He twisted the key in the lock. Took another step to keep their attention elsewhere.

"I told you," said Lane, "sit down."

Gray leaped forward, the chains falling from his wrists. He felt a little stiffness; his reflexes had atrophied after months in here, but not enough to stop him. A split second, and he had his chain wrapped around Lane's neck as he knelt on the ground, the tip of a pen pressed to his vein.

"Here's what we're going to do," said Gray, a familiar calm sweeping through him at once again having the upper hand. "During the delay in the surveillance monitors, you're going to tell them you got the information from me. You're going to tell the warden I'm being transferred, and then we'll all take a trip together."

"What's to stop me from taking you out once we're out of this cell?" said Jordyn.

"This pen just so happens to have been converted into a dart, filled with poison. It will kill the man you love unless I give him the antidote."

"I—don't know where you got the idea I love him."

"Oh, you can pretend to be like me, but deep down, you're just like everyone else. You hide your feelings, but you have them. Especially toward Lane."

"Elliot. His name is Elliot."

He jabbed the tip of the pen into Elliot's shoulder, releasing the poison. She gasped, her eyes filling with tears.

"You've betrayed yourself, you know," said Gray, still holding the chain around Elliot's neck. "You have no idea how blind you are to how you're your attachments compromise efficiency. It gave me the opportunity to take advantage of a weak link in what you thought was such a strong chain."

"Please. Just tell me where the antidote is."

"I'm not telling you where it is until we're safely out of here."

She cracked the door, notified the guard. A few moments later, they walked out, Gray in front of them, his handcuffs loose around his wrists.

She told them they were transferring the prisoner, and walked out the door, their exit accelerated by the fact that they were government agents.

Outside, they shuffled into a black sedan; by this time, Elliot was so weak he had to lie down in the back seat.

"Give me the antidote!" said Jordyn, nearly screaming.

"Not until we're out of the gate."

Jordyn drove; showed her ID to security. The guard questioned her a few minutes about whether she had proper authorization, then, finally, let them on their way.

Jordyn kept driving until Gray told her she could stop. Tree branches arched over the road; bushes embraced the car as it crawled to a halt in the gravel.

"Give it to me," said Jordyn, her face desperate.

"What?"

"The antidote. Give me the antidote."

"There isn't one."

"But—"

"Hope. That's all I needed. You hoped I had one, because you love him. Again, your emotions betray you. And him." Gray shook the chain off of his arms and legs, except for a generous length of it that he tossed it over the seat, over her shocked face, pressed into her neck.

After she lapsed into unconsciousness, he pulled Jordyn and Elliot out of the car, dragged them into the bushes. And took the wheel, racing toward the west, to find a place where he could change identities. And take advantage of his newfound freedom.


	3. Revelations

Jason drove to Whit's End, anticipation gripping him. And apprehension. Why did he feel like this? It was just his father. And it wasn't like he was getting married or anything. How had this become such a big deal?

Because he loved her. And because his father was, well, his father. Connie was like a daughter to him in many ways. It was like telling both his father and her father at the same time that they were dating. Made all the worse because they'd kept it secret.

In the beginning, they'd kept it secret more by default than anything, not wanting anyone to make a big deal out of it; then keeping the secret had become more like a game, to see how long they could get away with no one finding out.

But it was time to let people know. Not just to keep them accountable, or because they'd have to sooner or later, but because he didn't think he could keep this a secret much longer. How could people not see just from looking at him how he felt about her?

He stopped the car in front of Whit's End. Connie pulled up her car behind his. As she walked up the sidewalk and stepped beside him, she took his hand.

"Wait—Dad might see us out the window," he said.

"Right." They stood there, neither willing to let go of the other's hand. Finally he stepped away from her, her touch fleeing him. And he walked up to the steps, opened the door, the bell's cheery jingle ringing into the silence.

His father was already there, sweeping the floor. He looked up as they came in. "Connie, you're early! Hi Jason. What brings you here at this hour?"

Jason cleared his throat. "I—well, we—wanted to tell you something. Before everyone got here."

Jason wondered if his father knew or not; he couldn't tell from his expression.

"We wanted you to know before anyone else," said Connie.

"What is it?"

Connie grabbed Jason's hand, looked up into his eyes. Her eyes drew him in; it was hard for him to look away again. "Me and Jason, well—I love him."

"I suspected something was going on between you two. I didn't want to say anything, until I knew for sure."

"Then—you approve?"

"Of course I approve!" Whit laughed, and gathered them both into a hug. "If I was choosing someone for my son, I can't think of anyone I'd rather have for him more than you, Connie. And Jason—my son. I know you'll take good care of her." He grasped Jason's shoulder.

Jason nodded, not trusting himself to speak. Tears hovered in his father's eyes. Connie kissed his father's cheek, and they spilled over onto his face. "Thanks, Whit," she said.

"For what?"

"For being so awesome."

"Um, Dad," said Jason, "Would you mind praying with us?"

His blue eyes turned serious. "Of course I will. Have you been praying together?"

"Some. We probably should have more. And we should have let people know earlier. It was just so fun sneaking around—but too much secrecy is a bad thing. I should know." He smiled ruefully. "We almost got in trouble yesterday because of it."

"Trouble?" His father's brow furrowed.

"Yes. I mean—" He looked at Connie, whose gaze fell to the floor, cheeks turning an entrancing shade of pink.

"I understand. With two people very much in love, things can get out of hand quickly, even if your intentions start out good. That's why it's all the more important to have that strong foundation of faith."

Jason nodded. "That's what I want for us. I don't want to let the wrong way…overtake us."

"We want to do this right the first time." Connie looked up at Jason again. He longed to brush her bangs back from her forehead. And kiss it, right in the center.

"I've seen you grow closer over the past few months," said Whit. "Part of me, I think, was hoping it would turn out this way. And I've never stopped praying for you both."

They stepped into the kitchen, and Whit prayed to keep them safe, help them make the right decisions. Jason prayed silently, fervently, with his father, although Connie, holding his hand beside him, was rather distracting…

"Well," said Connie, flipping her bangs absently back from her forehead with her hand, "I'd better get to work."

She stayed behind the counter, getting things ready, while Jason stepped out with his father.

"I will take good care of her, Dad."

"I know."

"I just—I'm only human. I don't want to hurt her, but what if I do? I don't want to lose her. I'd rather lose her, though, than do something that would—I never want her to have to go through any kind of pain, for my sake."

"I know. I felt a lot of the same thing with Jenny. We didn't go through the same things you did—few have—but I'd rather have lost her than be the cause of her pain. I think that's one test of love. You two love each other very much, don't you?"

He nodded.

"Back when you just came home, you'd have never imagined this, would you?"

"No. It's—I'm glad I got through it. You didn't let me give up."

"Neither did she."

Jason's throat tightened as he recalled her, helping bring him out of the darkness, helping heal him. He would have given up on himself; she didn't. For her to want him, to love him—was amazing. Part of him was so afraid that if she ever left, it would plunge him into desolation again.

"Whit," said Connie, "It looks like we're running low on napkins. I only saw a couple under the counter."

"Oh. I think there's more in the back. I'll go check." He headed through the store room door and Connie came up to Jason.

"I feel better now that Whit knows," said Connie. "You were right."

"Aren't I always?"

She punched his arm.

"Ow!"

"Sorry!"

"Just kidding. That was my good arm."

She play-slapped him. "Cut it out! I have some work to do." She turned toward the counter; he grabbed her sleeve, spun her around. Pressed his lips to her forehead.

"There," he said. "I've been wanting to do that all day."

"It's only nine o'clock."

"Exactly." He kissed the bridge of her nose.

She giggled. "I –think that's going a little too far."

"I'm not so sure. Now this—" he pressed his finger to her lips—"is off limits. For now."

She smiled. Wrapped her arms around him.

A throat cleared behind him. "That doesn't look like a 'good to see you' hug," said a voice. Jason whirled around.

"What do you mean?"

Eugene stood there, holding an iPad hooked up to some sort of port. "I am quite certain that hug was not of the platonic variety."

"You don't look too surprised," said Connie.

"Katrina guessed sooner than I did. Even though I had my suspicions, I wasn't prepared to surrender to the evidence, until now."

The bell above the door jingled, signaling their first customers of the day. Four kids tumbled inside; Jason had seen them around before, but wasn't sure of their names. First two identical boys dashed through the door, then a little girl with long black hair, and finally a girl about twelve or thirteen who ran up to the little girl and caught her hand. "You've got to stay with me, Chaise. You're too little to keep up with the boys."

"But Jessica-!"

"How about one of those?" said Connie.

"One of- whats?" said Jason.

"Kids."

"I think it's a little too early for that."

"I know." She gave him a smile, and strode away toward the counter.

"I think you two would make good parents," said Eugene.

"You think so? Connie would, that's a no-brainer, but I'm not so sure about myself."

"You would."

"So would you."

A haunted look crossed Eugene's eyes.

"I'm sorry—I –"

"That's all right. We have…come to terms with it."

"You….could always adopt."

"We have considered that. We are just not sure that is the best option for us at the moment."

Jason nodded. "So what have you been working on?" He gestured to the iPad.

"This? I have been working on a mobile interface with the office computer. Since beginning the assignment at 5 a.m. this morning, my efforts have proven less than satisfactory, as the computer is comprised of a conglomeration of components, some of them state of the art, some of them obsolete—"

The two boys zoomed past with their ice cream cones, almost running into them, interrupting Eugene's explanation. The boys sat down and soon the two girls joined them. It only took a few moments before the boys were standing on their chairs, pretending they were explorers, and the older girl was trying to keep the younger girl from joining them.

Eugene stepped over to their table. "Mark, Luke, I would appreciate it if you would discontinue your precarious positions."

"What?" said the boys in unison.

"Please sit down."

"Oh," said the one in the blue shirt.

"I'm sorry," said Jessica. "They don't always listen to me."

"That's all right. It looks like you have your hands full today."

Jessica nodded, shoving the straw back into the cup which the little girl had taken out. Eugene stepped back over to Jason.

"You know them?" said Jason.

"I have had the privilege of working with their father at the college while collaborating with the history department," said Eugene. "Their mother has worked with Katrina at the middle school as a substitute teacher."

The boys had stopped standing on the chairs, but now they were crawling under the table.

"How do you tell the boys apart?"

"I'm not entirely sure that I can. I believe the one in the blue shirt is Luke, the one in the red shirt is Mark."

"Hey, what's this?" said Luke. He crawled out from under the table and approached Eugene. "Hi, Mister Meltsner. There is something under the table. It looks like clay or something, but there's wires and since you know about technical stuff-"

"Wires?" said Jason. Alarm bells rang in his mind, but the thought was too preposterous to coalesce completely. "Let me take a look."

Just then, Connie came toward them with a cup. "Here's your root beer float, Jessica," she said. "Sorry it took so long."

"That's okay." She took it just as Jason knelt down to look under the table. With the bright light from the window, it took a moment for his eyes to adjust.

Then he saw it. A small square of what looked like gray modeling clay pressed to the underside of the table, a device taped onto it, wires coiling to disappear under the clay.

The little girl peeked underneath, looking at him with big brown eyes. "Whatcha doing?"

Jason's heart thudded hard, cold running through him. Disbelief, then the familiar thrill of preparing for defensive action.

"Get back," he said. "There's a bomb."

"A bomb?" said several voices, one of them his father, who had just returned with a box of napkins.

"Yeah, Dad." He stood. "Let's get everyone out of here."

"What's a bomb doing at Whit's End?" said one of the boys.

"I don't know," said Jason. Jason grasped his hand, Whit took the other boy's hand, while Eugene dialed his cell phone. They headed toward the door.

"Come on, Chaise, we have to go!" A few steps behind them, Jessica was tugging Chaise by the wrist.

"But I forgot my strawberry shake!" She broke free of her sister and ran back toward the table, her yellow dress flowing behind her. Connie ran after her, scooped her up in her arms.

"It's okay, I got her!" said Connie. "Go, Jessica!"

BOOM!

Like a shotgun slamming into Jason's heart, the shockwave rammed him into the ground.


	4. Wounds

Whistling, crackling noises snapping the air. Smoke, the hot acrid smell of fire. Cold tiles beneath his arms. Debris like hot flaming coals rained down on him, burning through his shirt.

A hand in front of him. The boy. Jason crawled forward, touched the hand, praying he was alive. He stirred. "You okay?" said Jason, trying to breathe through the smoke.

"What happened?" said the boy. Blue shirt—Luke. Jason helped him sit up; tears tracked through the dust on his face.

"Bomb went off. You hurt anywhere?"

The boy shook his head. "I need to find my brother and sisters."

"Be careful."

Around him, figures stirred. Eugene. Dad. Covered in dust and debris, but they didn't look injured. Whit helped the other boy sit up; his forehead was bleeding.

"How is he?" said Jason. Smoke stung his eyes and nose, making him cough.

"I think—it's just a small cut. It's a head wound, though—Go check on Connie and the girls."

_Connie. _

Jason stood, trembling all over from shock. Ten feet away, through the smoke, he could make out several forms lying on the ground.

They weren't moving.

He ran as well as he could and collapsed beside them. Connie. Her face pale as death. Beneath her head, blood pooled.

Terror stabbed his heart.

No. No—it can't be. She can't leave me, not so soon—we have so much life ahead together—

He pressed his fingers to her throat. A pulse, throbbing faintly. Relief washed over him.

He lifted her head, and ripped a generous piece off of his shirt. Wrapped it around the wound. Blood soaked into it, saturating it. Too much blood.

_Head wounds bleed like that_, he told himself.

_But they can also be dangerous. _

"Please, help me!" said a voice. Ahead of him, Jessica was kneeling over another still form. The little girl. He laid Connie down gently and crawled over to them.

A chunk of table lay on the girl's leg, which was twisted at a wrong angle. Jessica was trying to tug the table piece off.

"Here, I'll help you." Jason lifted the block of wood, and gasped. The leg was twisted backwards, blood pouring from her knee.

"What are we going to do?" said Jessica.

"She'll be okay," said Jason, though he wasn't sure. He tore off what remained of his shirt and tied it around the girl's leg above the knee. He doubted the leg could be saved, so he might as well make sure she didn't lose any more blood.

"Keep her head up," said Jason, "and don't move her."

Jessica nodded, fear shrouded beneath the mask of dust on her face.

Jason crawled back over to Connie, lifted her head onto his lap. "You'll be okay," he said, stroking her hair. "Dear God, please don't take her from me." He held her hand in his, thumb pressed against the pulse in her wrist, making sure it didn't weaken. He kept thinking it was getting stronger, then thinking he was just imagining it.

The wail of the ambulance. Two of them. A police car pulled up outside the shattered window. Eugene and Whit had already taken the boys outside.

Jason vaguely registered a blue uniform beside him. "Did you find any more bombs?" said the policeman. He recognized Lieutenant Shaw's voice.

"Any—more?" Alarm pierced the fog in Jason's mind. "I didn't think of that. We need to get them out of here."

"Agreed. Let the paramedics take care of it; that's what they're trained for." A hand on his arm, pulling gently, then more firmly when Jason didn't move.

"I can't leave her."

"They'll take care of her."

Jason let the policeman guide him outside, along with Jessica, onto the sidewalk, but unease tugged at him. He didn't like to leave Connie alone. What if there was another bomb? What if—

He moved back toward the door.

A hand on his arm. "Jason." His father. "Wait."

"But—"

"She'll be okay."

"Dad—what if she's not okay? What if—"

"No matter what happens, she is in God's hands." Despite his words, his father's voice faltered.

They waited for what seemed an eternity until the paramedics emerged with Connie. In reality it was probably only a few minutes. The little girl followed, and her frightened sobs pierced the silence. Jessica leaped forward, and smoothed back her black hair, telling her through her tears that it would be all right.

For the first time, Jason noticed people had gathered beyond the police barrier, talking in hushed tones and pointing at the damaged Whit's End. Through the glittering broken glass you could see the blackened area, still smoldering, where the bomb had exploded, and the scattered remnants of the table, patches of blood smeared on the floor.

Jason knew he should feel something about the building—he would at some point—but right now he was numb. All he could feel was a vague throbbing ache in his heart which could burst apart into raw agony at any moment.

Despite this potential threat, he stepped up to Connie as they loaded the stretcher into the ambulance. She was so still. Her chestnut hair spilled over the stretcher, dark against her pale face and the bandage on her head, already soaked with blood.

He climbed into the ambulance behind her.

"What are you doing?" said one of the paramedics. "You need to be treated—"

"I'm fine. I'm going with her."

"You can't just—"

"I'm going with her." He glared at the man, who backed off, and talked to the Lt. Shaw, who looked at Jason, and nodded.

Jason stayed with her as they drove to the hospital, holding her hand, hoping to see her eyes flutter open. He couldn't bear the thought of never catching a glance from those blue eyes again.

He kissed her forehead, and a tear slipped down his cheek. Sorrow built inside him, a horrible rending pain; he fought it, turning away from her, his palm leaning against the cold wall of the ambulance. He forced a white wall of blankness in his mind to shut off the ache threatening to overwhelm him. But to not face her, to turn his back on her at this moment, even with his pain, would betray her. He turned back, knelt beside the stretcher, and began to pray.

"Dear God, please don't take her from me. Please—" A sob built up in his chest and he leaned over, grasped the thin sheet until his fingernails dug into his palms. Silent sobs seized him as tears flowed down his face, onto her blue-green shirt.

He barely noticed the ambulance had stopped when the door slid open, startling him. He wiped the tears with the back of his hand, only half-caring if people saw he'd been crying. Stiffly, he followed her out and into the hospital until a wall of nurses stopped him from going into the ER with her.

"Wait there," the nurse pointed to the chairs in the waiting room. "A nurse will be with you shortly to look at your injuries."

"But I don't have any injuries."

She gestured to his arm. Beneath Connie's blood coating his skin, there was a long cut like a defensive wound from a sword. He hadn't noticed it before, but now that she'd pointed it out, it began to sting and throb. He sat down and, without any other cloth at hand, pressed it to his jeans to stop the bleeding. Pain dug into it but it distracted him from the greater pain.

He didn't know if he wanted to be distracted from it, though. It was something tangible, connected to her.

And there was still hope. They would save her. They had to.

A thought wormed into his mind. For the first time, more than half-formed. Someone had done this. It wasn't just an accident; someone had planted that bomb. But why? Who?

Who would want to harm children?

Or—harm his father.

The horrible suspicion crept up on him. The thing he had been dreading. It was Will again. He must have found another mercenary to do his dirty work, since Gray was still in prison.

_I will find him,_ thought Jason, _and make him pay. _

He was surprised at the savagery of his thoughts, but his emotions had been seared to the ragged edge.

A nurse appeared and gave him a form to fill out; then she led him to a side room and he sat on the bed for a while. Finally a doctor came in, asked him a few health-related questions, and cleaned the wound. Cleared her blood away. "You are with the group that came in from Whit's End, aren't you?"

"Yes," was all Jason could say.

The doctor shook his head and held up the syringe. "My kids often go to Whit's End. If kids can't be safe there, where can they?" He jabbed the syringe into Jason's arm and emptied the localized anesthetic into it.

"I know."

He looked at the chart on the wall clipboard. "Oh, you're Jason Whittaker? Whit's son. I'm sorry."

"Do you happen to know anything—whether the others are all right?"

"I haven't heard, no. Even if I had, I couldn't disclose that information unless you were family."

"We're practically family," said Jason, more harshly than he'd intended. He looked away, angry at the doctor for not being helpful, at the same time knowing anger was irrational. He couldn't stand just sitting here, getting a shallow wound stitched up, when he had no idea what Connie's condition was.

"Do you mind my asking what happened?" The doctor gestured in the general direction of the worst of his scars.

"Yes. I mean—I'd rather not talk about it." Shame flashed through him. With everything that had happened, finding another shirt hadn't been a priority. But now he realized everyone could see what had been done to him…He'd rather not have any questions, rather not relive it. He thought about asking for a shirt or something, but Connie mattered more than momentary discomfiture.

As soon as the doctor snipped the antiseptic thread, he burst out of the door and tore down the hallway.

Finally he found his father and Eugene in the waiting room. Beside them sat Jessica and Mark. No—blue shirt. Luke. His heart went out to them; they were waiting for someone close to them too. And they were just kids, having come to Whit's End to have fun. Never expecting in a million years something like this could happen. While to Jason, even in benign situations, danger was always in the back of his mind. A downside to his background…and recent experiences.

He sat down beside his father. "Is Mark okay?"

"I think so," said Whit. "A doctor is looking at him now. It looked like the wound wasn't very deep…from what I could tell." Lines of sorrow shaded Whit's face.

"Have you heard anything about Connie?" said Eugene, eyes gleaming with concern.

"Not since I got in. They wouldn't let me follow her."

"They wouldn't let me follow Chaise either," said Jessica. She was holding Luke's hand, her own hand bandaged, and her formerly tidy brown ponytail tumbled over her shoulders in a mass of brown, flecks of ash in it. Luke looked exhausted, his curly brown hair a mess.

"Have you heard anything about your sister?"

"She's in surgery. They said she was going to be okay, but she looked so—" Her breath caught. "It's all my fault. I couldn't hold onto her—and now she and Connie are—"

Jason stepped over to her. Knelt on the floor, and looked in her eyes. "It's not your fault. It's the fault of the man who did this. No one, least of all me, blames you for what happened to Connie and Chaise. Okay?"

She nodded; tears clung to her lashes, spilled over onto her cheeks. Then she stopped short, looking at him with horrified fascination.

"What happened?" she said.

Self-conscious, he took a breath. "An evil man did this to me. Like the one who planted the bomb."

"Oh."

Jason sat back down, wishing he didn't have to be exposed to scrutiny. Others who walked by would notice and wonder…

"Jason," said Eugene. "I may have something that might interest you. It is in my car. Would you like to come with me to get it?"

"Sure." He wasn't sure what it was, but he couldn't stand just sitting there. On the other hand, he wanted to be there in case there was news about Connie.

"It will only take a few minutes," said Eugene.

Jason nodded and followed him to the parking lot. The sun was at its zenith; it was only about noon. Heat wavered over the metal surfaces of the cars.

Eugene popped open the trunk. He took out a piece of white cloth and unfolded it. A shirt.

"My mother in law gave this to me last Christmas. I am ashamed to say that I forgot about it because it is not exactly my size or my style, to be honest." He handed it to Jason.

"Thank you." Jason took the shirt and tugged it over his shoulders; as it often did, a twinge of pain shot through his arm.

"Are you all right?" said Eugene.

"Fine."

"I had no idea the extent of—what happened."

"That was the idea. That time—is not exactly something I am proud of. It wasn't my fault—but it was, in a way. I wish I could purge all of this from me, the scars, the memories—but I'll never get rid of it."

Eugene shook his head. "If something similar happened to me, I doubt I would have the strength to get through it."

"God is the only reason I escaped with my sanity—even then, I'm not sure that I did. Connie has helped me forget for the most part, but now—" His breath caught. He looked down at the pavement, grass crawling up through the cracks. "I don't think it is over yet. Will is still out there."

"You think that he is the one who did this?"

"I would be surprised if it wasn't."

They headed back inside. Whit was alone; Jessica, Mark and Luke had all gone to see Chaise, along with their parents, who had just arrived. The little girl was stabilized, but the doctors weren't sure if they could save her leg.

A few minutes after they sat down, a nurse came in. She told them that though the head wound had been deep, it didn't look like there was any brain damage. And they could go in and see her, although she wasn't awake.

Jason knelt beside her bed. Touched her cheek; it was cold.

Then, her eyes opened. "Jason?" she whispered.

Relief burst through him. "I'm here, Connie. You're going to be okay." He kissed her cheek.

She closed her eyes again. He wasn't sure if she was asleep or not, but just then, a nurse cracked open the door. "Are you Jason Whittaker?"

"Yes…"

"There's a call for you at the front desk."

"For me?"

Jason rose and followed her.

Picked up the phone.

"Hello," said a deep voice, slightly distorted. "I thought I'd contact you this time, rather than your father. And don't bother trying to trace this call; I have taken steps to make it untraceable."

A chill raced through him. "You're Will."

"Guilty as charged. And you and I have unfinished business to discuss, Jason."


	5. Decisions

_A/N: Kind of a weird chapter, maybe, but thought I'd post it anyway. :) It's also pretty long, but not the longest (so far). Tell me what you think, if you want to, of course. :)_

* * *

For a moment Jason couldn't speak. Then anger burned through his shock. "You set off the bombs."

"Well, I personally did not press the detonator, but I directed my operative to do so."

"Who is your operative?"

"I will be the one asking the questions."

"I will never provide you with answers."

"I think that you will, if you care about what happens to your town, your friends, your father. To Connie."

"Don't you dare speak her name."

"Or what? You don't even know who I am. And it will stay that way. Let's cut to the chase, shall we? You will give me the location of the mind-control weapon, or in forty-eight hours, another bomb will explode. Who knows, maybe it will be in even closer proximity to Connie than it was last time. This time, I doubt she'll be able to escape with such a minor injury."

Jason bit back a curse. "You are evil, Will."

"I beg to differ. I may use questionable methods at times, but my goals are worthwhile."

"The old 'end justifies the means' excuse."

"I'm not going to debate with you; I doubt you would ever agree with my methods. However, you will end up doing what I tell you. I am not bluffing; the bomb saw to that, and my operative is an expert who will never be discovered."

"Like Gray was?"

"He was loyal, as far as that went.

"Please give my regards to your father; he has a similar ultimatum, concerning his own secret. He cares for Connie at least as much as you, I believe."

"You won't get away with this. We will discover your identity and then—"

"Hollow threats, Jason. You are just too small a fish in an even smaller pond; the only reason you matter is that you have a secret that happens to have global implications. And you are stubborn. So is your father. But I have pulled out all the stops on this one; this is the endgame, I think." Jason heard the self-assured smile in his voice and wanted to strangle it out of him.

"Oh, and one more thing. Have you seen the news this morning? Something happened in Virginia yesterday I think may interest you."

The phone clicked silent.

Jason stood there, arm resting on the cool surface of the counter. He was shaking. This was Will, who had ultimately been responsible for what had happened to him. To Connie. Gray had performed it, even seemed to enjoy it, but without Will pulling the strings, Gray would have targeted someone else.

Forty-eight hours. What could he do in forty-eight hours?

There had to be a way to discover Will's identity. He went to so much trouble to disguise it; to discover it would expose him. He couldn't be as all-powerful as he claimed. If they could find out who he was, they'd at least have someone to go after.

Jason was not giving up without a fight. But deep down, he knew that if it came down to giving the weapon to Will, and Connie's life, he would choose her in an instant.

Jason walked over to the TV and switched it to a news station. Perhaps he would find a clue, although he doubted Will would deliberately provide one.

The tail end of an in-depth investigation about the civil war in Syria. Then a commercial, and something the President had said yesterday that had certain groups up in arms.

"And now, an update about the story we broke yesterday about the escape from a Virginia maximum security prison. The dangerous criminal known as Vincent Starr escaped yesterday by holding hostage two government agents who had come to interrogate him. He forced them to help him escape by injecting one of them with poison and promising to provide the antidote. One of the agents died from poison, and the other is in serious condition as….."

A fog of horror fell across Jason's mind. Vincent Starr. Jason had not followed Gray's situation after he'd been incarcerated—he'd wanted to forget him as much as possible—but he would never forget his name. At least, the name he claimed for himself.

Jason sat down, unable to fully comprehend it. He had thought—hoped—that Gray would be in prison the rest of his life. Not complete justice, but enough that he wouldn't have to think about the man again. But now—

Jason's gunshot wound twisted with pain, as if in sympathy with the one who had shot him.

"Are you all right?" said Eugene, who had suddenly appeared beside him.

"Yes—I mean no, not really. Is Connie awake?"

Eugene shook his head, sorrow in his eyes. "They say she's 'out of the woods.' Who was on the phone?"

Gray's face popped up on screen, his expression serious, his light gray-blue eyes staring at the camera.

"It's him," said Jason.

"Who?"

"Gray."

"He escaped?" Eugene turned to look at the television.

The image of Gray's face was replaced by an auburn-haired woman in a hospital bed. "I will make that man pay if it is the last thing I do," she said, her voice barely audible, struggling to take a breath every few words. "He murdered an honorable agent who I—cared for. As a colleague and a friend. If he is not brought to justice, then justice itself is defective."

"That is who Gray is," said Jason. "He thinks nothing about murder. About killing. How could I be so naïve as to think that he wouldn't find a way out? And what if—" he stopped short. "He wasn't in prison last night. It makes sense. He could have—I have to tell Dad."

"Wait a moment, Jason—what makes sense?"

Jason grasped Eugene's shoulders. "Will. It was Will on the phone. He is the one behind this. And now that Gray has escaped—it's no coincidence." Jason raced back into Connie's room, Eugene following him.

"Dad—I have something to tell you."

Whit's face paled; he must have seen the look on Jason's face. "What is it?"

"I know who is behind the bombing."

Jason told his father about Will's call, and Gray's escape. First they agreed that someone should be in Connie's room at all times to make sure no one had a chance to plant a bomb while she was the most vulnerable. Then they discussed what to do next. Will had held no one hostage this time, but in a sense, he held the whole town hostage. What if a bomb blew up somewhere else? What if there were multiple bombs? There was no way to find them. They needed the police to know the details. Will was hiding behind his anonymity; he was confident no one could find out about him, and Gray could be anywhere.

"Are you sure it's Gray who planted the bomb?" asked Whit.

"He escaped yesterday," said Jason. "How could that be a coincidence?"

"There are no such things."

"Exactly."

"At the same time, we shouldn't assume something without all the information."

"Under the circumstances, I think it's reasonable to assume." He looked at Eugene. "Don't you think so?"

"As I have had complications of making assumptions in the past I am wary of doing so. That said, under the circumstances, it would be fair to assume, in this case, that Gray is the one who has done this. He has been affiliated with Will, and we have no reason to believe that he has broken his affiliation. He has no compunctions about killing, and does not appear to have a conscience. However, as we have no evidence, it would not be wise to act on our assumptions, especially since we are not sure how to proceed."

"The first thing we need is the police on this, so we can have every available person on hand to look for bombs. What do you think, Dad?"

"Will didn't tell us to keep the police out of it this time. He thinks he can get away with doing this. But if every citizen is alerted to the danger, perhaps we can circumvent his plans. At least, reduce the casualties." A pained look crossed his father's eyes.

"Do you think we can succeed? He's just going to keep after us, threatening, killing, until he gets what he wants."

"That's why we have to go on both the defensive and offensive."

"What are you suggesting?" said Eugene.

"This is not the best place to talk about it. You never know who could be listening." He looked at Jason. "Would you be willing to stay here with Connie while Eugene and I go to a secure location? I will fill you in as soon as I can."

"I could call the police and inform them of what we're dealing with."

Whit nodded. "We need to take advantage of whatever time we have."

After Whit and Eugene left, Jason called the police and told them he believed Will was behind the bombing. They had known some of it before, since they'd rescued him after he'd been shot, but they were vague on some of the details. Jason wanted them to know as much as possible, but he didn't want to leave Connie, so he persuaded them to send a representative to the hospital. Shaw had been the unofficial liaison between Jason and the police since the Incident, so he was the one they sent.

Before he arrived, Mr. and Mrs. Snowe dropped by and expressed their thanks for getting their kids out safe, although worry haunted their faces. They'd been at work when the bomb went off, and had trusted the reputation of Whit's End as the safest place their kids could be during the day.

"It usually is," said Jason. He told them about what Connie had done—going toward the bomb to rescue their daughter.

"Then she is a hero," said Mrs. Snowe. "She saved our daughter's life."

"How is Chaise doing?"

Mr. Snowe shook his head. "She's going to live. But her leg—it's shattered." He closed his eyes. "We adopted her so she would have a good life here in the US, but now…I feel like I've failed her."

"You couldn't have known."

"Neither could you. I don't blame you—I blame whoever did this." Anger flashed across his eyes.

Guilt stabbed Jason. It was partly his fault. If not for him, for what he'd done in Egypt, Will would never have found out about his secret. Maybe he would not have targeted his father, either.

_All of this is ultimately my fault, _he thought. _I have to fix this._

_ Even though I'm out of that life now, it follows me. It was my passion, but when things like this happen, I regret the day I got the letter from the Agency, telling me I'd aced their aptitude test and ordered me to report for training in a 'special program'…._

The Snowes filed out of the room, and left a bright bouquet of roses on the window sill.

When the policeman arrived, they convinced the nurse to let him in the room since it concerned the safety of the patient, and the safety of the entire town, for that matter.

Sitting in the chair against the opposite wall, Shaw filled him in on their preliminary investigation into the bombing. The bomb had only been about an ounce of C4, but enough to do damage, and kill someone if they were close enough. It was about the size of a mail-bomb, and so simple anyone could make it with the right materials. It had been detonated remotely, most likely from close by.

"Could he have watched us through the window?"

"Who?"

"Gray."

"You think Gray is behind this?"

Jason told him about Gray's escape, and Will's call.

Shaw nodded gravely. "In light of your history with him, he is the most likely suspect, although there is no way to know for sure yet."

"If Will is going to set more bombs, Gray is around here somewhere. There has to be a way to draw him out."

"Set a trap for him?"

"Something like that."

"That's not exactly normal police procedure."

"These are not normal circumstances. How often is Odyssey under siege by a power-hungry maniac?"

Shaw rubbed his jaw, brow furrowed.

A wry smile tugged at Jason's mouth in spite of himself. "Let me rephrase that."

"More often than a town this size should ever have to deal with such things. You'd think we'd be used to it by now. But I keep expecting Odyssey to get back to the nice quiet little town I came here to work in. It usually is, so even though our force is a good one, we're not equipped to deal with 'big city' problems."

"Like bombs."

Shaw sighed. "Like bombs. I'm just glad there were no casualties. Though it came close." His gaze wandered to Connie; Jason looked at her pale face, the white bandage around her head, the beep of the monitor keeping time with her heart.

"I'm sorry, Jason."

"I love her you know."

"I didn't know that."

"I want everyone to know it. I almost lost her; I'm not going to play games anymore. Time is too…precious." He touched her face, tucked back a strand of her hair.

Shaw cleared his throat. "We are going to put every available resource on this. We aren't going to rest until this man is brought to justice."

"I'll help as much as I can. Only—I don't want to leave her alone."

"We could station a man here. Under the circumstances, I think the hospital will be glad to have police protection."

Jason nodded. "I won't be able to sit here for long, knowing Gray is out there."

"As a civilian, there is only so much you can do."

"You need my expertise."

"As a consultant, yes. But since you are so close to this, it might be hard for you to see clearly. I don't want….well, rash decisions to be made."

"You know me well, don't you," said Jason, cynicism creeping into his voice. "It's because I'm close to this that I _need_ to be involved. Besides, you admitted you are over your heads on this one. You can't follow protocol to the letter and expect to prevail. I should probably call the Agency in any case. They need to know Will is involved here."

Shaw nodded, looking somewhat relieved. "We could use the help. You will do the honors, I expect?"

"I should have called them much earlier. It's just that….you're right, it has been hard to think clearly. It's been chaos…we need a little order here."

Shaw left to talk to the chief about stationing an officer at the hospital, and Jason went into the bathroom to call the Agency. They put him on hold for quite some time, playing some happy merry-go-round music, and then an anonymous female secretary answered. "Hello, how can I help you?"

"This is Jason Whittaker, former code sign one-one-three-one. I would like to talk to Deputy Director Ames, please."

"The deputy director is not available at this time. What are your concerns?"

"My _concerns_ are that Will has returned. He has already bombed my town and—Listen, is Tasha Forbes available?"

"Let me check."

Another long stretch of that annoyingly cheerful music. Jason wondered how Tasha was doing; he hadn't spoken to her since she'd left with Gray in her custody. After what had happened between them last time, and realizing he loved Connie, he knew it would be awkward to speak with her, but he hoped they could remain the friends they always had been.

"Yes, Mr. Whittaker, are you there?"

"I'm still here," he said through gritted teeth.

"I'm sorry, but Tasha Forbes is not available."

"Where is she?"

"She is in an undisclosed location. She is no longer assigned to Will; in fact, the entire file has been transferred to the CIA, since the Senate subcommittee on intelligence has determined the CIA is a more appropriate agency to deal with a case of this kind."

"I see. Thank you." He hung up.

He knew it would be almost impossible to ask about the CIA's investigation now that it was their property.

The FBI, though. Jason had some contacts there, and if Gray had crossed state lines, they'd be involved in the manhunt. Perhaps they had already tracked Gray here…although with Gray's reputation, he'd probably disappeared pretty thoroughly as soon as he'd escaped. There had to be a way to find him, prove he was here. Then he could call the FBI and they could create a net around the town….

But how to find him—that was the next question. He looked at his watch; only 43 hours left.

Shoving down the rising panic, he stepped back into Connie's room, and sat in the chair beside her. He took her hand in his, hoping to comfort her even though she was unconscious.

Her hand…so small, so fragile…

He shook his head, ridding himself of the horrible image he had of her form disappearing in flames. She had almost been lost to him only a few hours ago.

A thought struck him, so clearly he didn't know why it hadn't occurred to him earlier. Gray had done this to her deliberately. Jason had discovered the bomb; everyone was headed out of Whit's End. It was Gray's last chance to target them—and he did it when Connie was closest to the bomb.

_He targeted her. I have to make him answer for what he has done. _

Her hand twitched, then her fingers closed on his, squeezing his hand. She groaned, and her eyes opened. "Jason…I thought you were…a dream…" She gasped. "My head hurts."

He leaned over and kissed her forehead. "There. That's as much as I can do, I'm afraid."

"It…does feel better now…." A smile touched her pale lips. So delicate she was, as if she could disappear with a breath.

He pressed his lips to hers; they were as soft as rose petals.

"What was that for?" she said. "My lips…didn't hurt."

"Just for good measure, my dear Connie."

Their lips met again; her hand pressed into the back of his neck with surprising strength for someone who had just woken up from a virtual coma.

A knock on the door behind him. He jumped, twisted around.

There stood Katrina in the doorway, a surprised look on her face. Behind her were several forms in the shadows, two of which looked like Wooton and Penny. He wasn't sure who the third one was.

"Um, can we come in, or is this a bad time?" said Katrina.

"We're…um—yes," said Jason, "you can come in."

Connie tried to sit up, but she collapsed back on the pillow. "Hi, guys," she said, her voice faint. "Kinda feels like déjà vu, doesn't it? Me in the hospital again, I mean."

"I'm so sorry, Connie!" said Penny, rushing over to her. "Are you okay?"

"Not—too sure. Just woke up. Hi, Wooton. Hi Katrina."

"I would have brought you a package," said Wooton, "but I just got off my route. Eugene called Katrina, who called Penny, who called me. At least, I think that's how it went. Could be the other way around, come to think of it…"

"I actually just got back from Chicago this morning," said Katrina. "I didn't hear about—what happened till Eugene called me a little while ago. I still can't believe it. A bomb at Whit's End. Out of nowhere."

"Not quite out of nowhere," said Jason. It was then that he noticed the figure lingering in the shadows of the doorway. "Do I know you?"

She stepped into the light. A burst of color assaulted his eyes—a bright pink shirt, skintight gold jeans, contrasting with bright blue streaks in her jet-black hair. Jewels sparkled on her face and in her ears. She was tall but her gold boots made her seem even taller, and she moved with a sinuous grace. Somehow the pastiche of colors and fabrics blended into a seamless whole. Not that Jason knew much about fashion, but he had a feeling that her confidence had something to do with the reason her look didn't clash. That, and the fact that she probably hadn't picked her outfit at a bargain store.

"Hi Mr. Whittaker," she said. "I'm Sierra Yu. You don't know me, but I've sought you out because we have mutual interests. That is, me and my employer. Do you know that the man formerly known as Gray has escaped?"

"I was aware of that."

"Then you know he is most likely the one targeting you through the bombing. And I happen to have a pretty good idea of how to find him."


	6. Plans

"Who is your employer?" Jason asked as he stepped out into the hallway; Sierra followed. It was getting crowded in there, and he didn't want to discuss this with the others present, though they looked at him curiously, but especially at the newcomer.

Sierra leaned against the nondescript gray wall, brushed back her long hair. "I suppose it wouldn't matter if I told you. I've seen your file."

Had everyone seen his file? "How much of it?"

Sympathy flickered across her eyes. "Enough to know why you would want justice.

"My employer is Vivian Handel. If you've seen the news, you've seen her speech about going after the man who murdered her colleague. What she didn't say on the news was that she was in love with the man who died, and that she secretly hired me to cut through the red tape and do what official channels can't—track someone with the expertise level of Starr. Sometimes one person can do a lot more than what a whole bureaucracy can." She spread out one arm. "As for myself, I'm in it purely for the monetary reward—although deep down, I also have a hunger for justice. One reason I got into this job, I think."

"So….you're a bounty hunter?"

"You could call me that. It has a romantic ring to it. Personally, I like to call myself an independent contractor, but I'm not too picky. Which you'll learn if you work with me for long."

"So you think I'm going to work with you."

"If you want to get something done. On the other hand, if you want to follow the police around in circles, be my guest."

"How do you know so much about this case? It only started this morning."

"Because I'm that good, that's how. Dare I say it, I'm better than Starr. He's a classic sociopath—he doesn't have feelings like normal people. He thinks that's a strength. Me, I think that's a weakness. You need emotions in order to have insight into your subjects; without it, you can make a fatal error. As, I believe, Starr did last time. He underestimated your feelings for Miss Kendall." She gestured toward the doorway, where Connie had been propped up among the pillows and was talking with Katrina, Penny and Wooton.

"How do you know that?"

"You forget, I came in with the others. We were too polite to mention it, but we saw what you two were doing. Besides, I was able to read between the lines of the police report, before Starr was caught."

"Oh. Did you talk with the others before you came in, or—"

"No, they were just a convenient way for me to sneak inside. To the hospital staff, I was just another part of the group. To your friends, I was some anonymous lurker." She laughed. "Although—" she twirled a strand of her blue hair—"I'm really anything but anonymous."

"How does that work? When you're undercover I mean."

"It's ingenious. My everyday face is my mask. I can really look very ordinary if I want to."

He tipped his head. "That's hard to imagine—but I can see how that approach could work."

"So," she said. "Do you want to know my idea?"

"I'm open to almost anything right now." He wondered if he should trust her; of course, in spy mode, he wouldn't trust anyone. He couldn't exactly ask for her credentials as a bounty hunter; by definition, someone like her would operate off the books. "Although I'd like to speak with your employer. Just a precaution, you understand."

"Of course."

He took out his cell phone. "What's her number?"

"I'd…rather just dial it from my phone. She won't trust another source. She might not admit anything at all; she wants to keep this contained as possible, so word doesn't get back to her superiors about this little operation."

"Trust me, giving her away is the last thing on my mind."

Sierra nodded. "This probably isn't the best place to keep it contained, though. We should take this outside."

"Just a minute."

Jason stepped back in the room, and told Connie he was heading out for a few minutes, maybe longer.

"Where are you going?" Concern shadowed her eyes.

"I'm helping with the investigation. We have to find the man who did this." He didn't tell her Gray was back, or that Gray might target Connie specifically under Will's orders. She had enough to deal with at the moment.

"Be careful, Jason."

He nodded. "I love you, Connie."

"I love you too, Jason."

"You'll take good care of her?" Jason asked the others.

"We will," said Katrina.

"I won't leave her side," said Penny.

"If they do," said Wooton, looking at Penny, "I'll take over."

"Good," said Jason. He left the hospital; outside, Sierra stepped across the parking lot, heels clicking on the pavement in a quick rhythm. She stopped at her car, an orange Volkswagen Beetle. Once inside, she gestured to him to get in the passenger seat. He hesitated, then climbed in.

Sierra dialed a number, and handed him her iPhone with a cover splashed with anime characters.

It rung for a minute; he wondered if he'd get her voicemail. Then, a voice, weary and hoarse, answered. "Hello? This is Vivian Handel."

"Hi, this is Jason—"

"I don't know you. Where is the owner of this phone?"

Sierra leaned over; Jason held the phone out for her. "I'm here," said Sierra. "I haven't been kidnapped or anything. You think I'd let that happen?"

"I don't know—would you? You came highly recommended, and that's what I'm paying you for, but I normally don't consort with people in your…profession."

Sierra laughed. "It's not like we're illegal. You paying me—maybe, but I won't hold that against you."

"I didn't want any contact between us unless absolutely necessary. Do you have something for me, or are you wasting my time?"

Sierra sighed. "I can see you don't really trust me. I don't blame you; it's just that I was your best option at the moment. But you can trust this man. I believe you've seen his file, as he's closely connected to the Starr case. He's the one who captured him, in fact."

Vivian's tone changed. "Oh, that Jason. Put him back on."

"Hi," said Jason.

"What's up?"

"Mostly I'm just calling to confirm that Sierra is who she says she is. You can't be too careful."

"No, you can't. I'm not sure that I trust her, either, but I needed a single, decisive tracker. Starr was off the radar; she picked up his trail while my colleagues were still running in circles. I'd be on this case too, except Starr nearly strangled me, as you can tell by my voice. I hate to admit it, but I probably wouldn't have been able to get as far as Sierra has.

"Do you want me to send you proof of our transaction? Because I don't have it."

"No, that's fine. I understand why you'd want someone like Sierra. In your position, I might have done the same."

"I saw your file, as part of my investigation into Starr. Your taking him down was impressive. Not anyone could do that." Sadness shot through her voice.

A flashback hit him. Of Gray threatening Connie, and Jason pounding Gray's face with his fist in a fit of rage. He knew now whey he'd reacted that way. He'd have intervened for anyone, but in her case, it was something more. "He was threatening someone I loved."

"I…couldn't save the one I loved from_ him_. Have you told yours how you feel?"

"I have."

"You're the fortunate one. Sometimes, when you find out what you really feel, it's too late to do anything about it. Except finding justice. You know, I wouldn't be broken up if, during the course of the investigation, Starr happened to…meet with an untimely end."

"We need him," said Jason, trying to be the voice of reason when even he was having trouble seeing what was so wrong with her suggestion. "We need him to get to Will. Gray's just a pawn."

"I know. I want that too—but on the other hand, I don't see him coming back to jail and staying there—he'll find a way to slither out of it. He'll—murder whoever he wants and he'll be free again. I'm about ready to swear off the whole justice system—but then, it's not what…Elliot would have wanted." Her voice caught.

"You loved him very much, didn't you."

A silence. As if she was collecting herself. "Very much," she said in a barely audible voice. "If Sierra doesn't follow through—promise me you'll catch him. I probably should've called you in the first place—you have a personal stake in it. She doesn't. Promise me."

"I will. I want him just as much as you do. I don't want…any more deaths."

"What's the name of the girl you love?"

"Connie."

"Keep her safe, Jason. Don't let Gray claim another victim."

"I won't. I'm not going to rest until he's taken out."

"Make sure that you don't. Put Sierra back on."

Jason handed the phone to Sierra. They spoke for a few minutes about the investigation, then she hung up.

"So," Sierra said, resting one arm on the steering wheel, "now that you've confirmed I'm legit, we've got to make the best use of the time we have. Agreed?"

"Agreed."

"I've got this gameplan I've been tossing in my head since Chicago, but I want a pair of fresh eyes on it. Especially since you're a component of that plan."

"I think I'd have to hear it before I agree to it."

"It's unconventional."

"As long as it's not illegal."

"I don't think it is. Though I've never been too particular about what's illegal and what isn't in this job."

"Let's figure out what our boundaries are as we go along. We can't afford to sit around doing nothing while Gray is plotting his next move."

Sierra outlined the basics of her plan; Jason added to it. They argued for a little and then agreed on a basic plan of attack, or agreed to disagree. But teaming up with her was the right thing to do, he felt. If he hadn't before, he did now that he'd talked to Agent Handel. She had lost someone; he was going to try to help her bring Gray to justice. But above all, he was going to find Gray before he set any more bombs. And if he didn't, before he detonated them.

He was not going to let Gray hurt Connie again. He had already almost lost her twice. If there was any way he could stop him this time, he would. Jason would sacrifice himself in a heartbeat if it meant saving her. She had endured so much already; he did not want her to experience any more pain. It hurt him almost physically to know she was injured, and it tore into him that he had been too late to stop it. Both when she'd broken her ankle, and when he'd found the bomb.

_I will not be too late again._

Sierra left; they didn't want to be seen with each other any more than they had to, especially because the plan depended on it. Then, he redialed the last number he'd received on his phone.

"This is Will," said the voice at the other end.

For a moment, Jason couldn't speak. Anger raged through him. Then he said, "I'm ready to make a deal."

"I'm not interested in deals. Are you giving me the information I asked for, or not?"

"Before I do so, I want to meet with a personal representative of yours."

"Oh? Which one is that?"

"The man who calls himself Gray. I'll tell him where the weapon is."


	7. Maneuvers

In the secret computer room, Eugene swiveled his chair so he could get a better view of the computer. He tried to make sense of what Whit was telling him. "So Zephyr was created for a beneficial purpose?"

Whit nodded. "It was intended to patch vulnerabilities in an operating system without interrupting what the user was doing. We wanted to make it as versatile as possible, a blanket application that could attach any code. We were caught up in creating it and we didn't see the malicious potential in the program until it was too late."

"Many a hacker has started with good intentions at heart."

Whit's eyes twinkled. "So, I'm a hacker?"

"Traditionally, 'hacker' didn't have the negative connotations that it does today. Many hackers have created programs that have improved computer security. Even I have experimented with how to get through the backdoor of a system, as a theoretical exercise."

Whit nodded. "Your expertise is the reason I asked you here."

"As it's best that Jason stays with Connie." Eugene couldn't help but wish he could have stayed with her too, even though he knew this was the best course of action. If there was any way he could help find those who did this, he would. However, he still wasn't totally sure what the secret program had to do with it all.

"So, back to Zephyr," said Whit. "A member of our team used it to hack into a government server. He was able to not only gather encrypted information, but control the computer without anyone's knowledge. He pulled out after twenty-four hours without permanent damage to their system, but when he told us, we realized the monster we'd created. It had the potential to exploit vulnerabilities in almost any system and take over, then multiply quickly from one computer to another. It was then that Will, or Might as he called himself then, hacked into our own system and discovered our designs. To thwart him and others like him, we agreed to shelve the project. Only two people would know where the program was, and only one person would have a copy of it."

"You, Mr. Whittaker?"

"Me. That's why Will targeted me last time Jason was—captured. He wanted Zephyr, because he knew the potential it had."

Eugene shook his head. "If indeed this program does what you say, no wonder Will wants it. Do you have any idea who Will is?"

"At one point, I was suspicious of one of the members of our group. But the second time Will hacked the computer, we were all present, so it couldn't have been the person I suspected. Will could have been someone in the same department who had overheard us when we were being a little too careless. Of course, back then we just thought he was a brilliant hacker; now we know he's attempting to take over the world."

"Even with your program, I don't see how it can be achieved."

"He thinks it can. That's all that matters right now—and how we can stop him. I have an idea, although it's probably a longshot. I was thinking that maybe we could use his own methods against him."

"Do you mean—"

"I don't want to say it, even in here, one of the most secure places we could be. I'm not even sure how we would use it, since we don't know where to look to begin with. I was hoping you might have some ideas."

Eugene thought for a moment. He was still struggling to comprehend all of what had happened; his ears were still ringing with the blast from the bomb and he wasn't sure that his mind wasn't affected either. He missed Katrina; she'd been gone all weekend and he hadn't seen her since Friday, only spoken to her on the phone. He'd been hoping to catch up with her, but now, if he was going to work on this project, it might be a while.

"I am not sure of how much help I will be," said Eugene, "but I will do my best. Would it be possible to call Katrina and tell her I might not be home for a while?"

"Of course. I'll call Jason and see if he has any updates on the investigation."

Since it was so cramped inside the computer room, they stepped out into Whit's office. Eugene dialed Katrina's cell number.

"Eugene?" It was good to hear Katrina's voice; he'd only talked to her an hour or so ago, but it felt like much longer.

"Hi, Katrina. Are you still at the hospital?"

"I think I may stay here overnight, so the others can go home and get some rest."

"That's just as well; I may be here for a while. Whit wants me to look into something that may help with the investigation."

"I hope it helps find whoever did this."

"I think we may have a good idea who. Remember when Jason was kidnapped?"

"I'll never forget what he looked like when we visited him in the hospital. What they did to him was—" She stopped, as if struggling to find the words. "You think that it's the same people?"

"Will called Jason and claimed responsibility. And he said that he might set more bombs."

A silence at the other end. "I wish there was something I could do. I feel so—helpless."

"So do I. Who knows where the next bomb could strike next?" He felt a rising panic. What if the next bomb went off near Katrina?

"Would you pray with me?" said Katrina. "I think it would make us both feel a lot better."

Eugene sat down in the office chair; Whit was still pacing by the window. He leaned his head in his hand, and imagined his wife beside him, as he prayed with her.

After they finished, Whit asked, "Does Katrina know if Jason is there? I can't get ahold of him."

"Is Jason available, Katrina?" Eugene asked her.

"He left about an hour ago. I didn't think much of it then, but now that I know more of what's going on—it was strange, he left with this woman. I'd never seen her before."

"Are you certain?"

"Trust me, I'd know if I'd seen her. She said her name was…Yu."

"Me?"

"No, Yu. Sierra Yu, that's it. Jason asked us to stay with Connie till he got back. Since then, a policeman showed up, which makes me feel a little better, but still, I'm not sure what one policeman could do if a bomb went off. Maybe Sierra had a clue for Jason, and that's why he went with her. Connie hasn't been feeling too good. She's been asking where Jason is, and we don't have an answer. Now that he's not answering his phone—I hate to be paranoid, but what if something happened to him?"

"I'm not sure how prudent it was for Jason to simply leave like he did," said Eugene. "Even if he had a good reason, he should have informed someone what he was doing." _Who am I to judge?_ thought Eugene as soon as he said it_. I probably wouldn't be thinking clearly if someone had just injured the woman I love. I still am not thinking clearly the way it is; my thoughts are not at all as organized as usual. _

"I'll call if Jason shows up here," said Katrina. "I suppose I should let you get to your project."

"Yes. I—I'll see you soon, Katrina."

"I love you, Eugene."

"I love you, too." Eugene sat back, already worn out from the day's events. The image of the bomb flashed against his closed eyelids. Connie, the children, thrown to the floor under a burst of fire—

_My weariness is nothing,_ he thought_. I need to help Whit get this project started. Beat Will at his own game—to borrow a metaphor. _

Eugene followed Whit back into the secret computer room and they plunged into the familiar territory of computer code.

L

Jason walked down the side of the road at the edge of town. It was early afternoon; the glare of the sun on the pavement almost blinded him. In a way the summer brilliance of the day seemed a mockery of the events of that morning. It should be overcast and gloomy; a storm should be whipping up right about now.

_But then, we are going to end this,_ thought Jason. _I'm going to meet with Gray, act like I'm going to give him the information, and then Sierra will attack. Gray won't know what hit him. When we have him, he won't be able to set any more bombs. Then we'll drag him to the police station, and—_

And? Gray had escaped before. According to government, Gray hadn't even given them Will's identity during months of interrogation. And would stopping Gray even stop the bombs? Couldn't Will just find another agent to do his dirty work?

But that didn't mean they shouldn't stop Gray. He was the agent of destruction. He needed to be brought to justice.

Again.

There had to be a way to end this. Once and for all. Maybe, after they captured him, Sierra would have some ideas about that too. Jason wasn't too sure about his mental faculties at the moment. He forced himself to focus, to not even think of Gray as Gray, because that set him off balance, but to think of him in spy terms, as the 'target'. Focus on the job at hand, take him down. Swift, efficient. Successful.

No option but success.

A huge warehouse stood on the edge of town, the empty remnant of a once-booming manufacturing plant. It had gone out of business in the mid-90's; now the weeds grew through the cracks in the pavement, and parts of the metal roof had started to cave in.

Jason stepped into the open loading dock, from sunlight into shadow. His heart thudded against his chest. He didn't like the idea of being alone in here, even though he wouldn't really be alone; Sierra had arrived some time earlier, and was camouflaged somewhere up in the catwalks with a sniper rifle. He hoped.

Metal creaked upon metal, shifting in the breeze. The sound of a shuffle, like a footstep behind him. He turned; no one was there.

They'd agreed to meet here at 2:00. Jason had expected Gray to be here first; he didn't seem like the kind to let another have an advantage over him.

Jason crept forward toward the shadows at the other end of the warehouse. Maybe Gray was there, near a pile of rusty machinery….

A movement off to the side, beyond the posts that held up the building. A figure sauntered forward.

Jason's heart skipped a beat.

Gray.

It was different—knowing he'd escaped, and seeing the man for himself, like a ghost rising from the grave. The last time Jason had seen him in jail, he'd turned his back on him and tried to bury him in a black hole in his mind. After Gray was put in prison, Jason shut out the memories of what had happened in that shed, of Connie being kidnapped. Still, despite all his precautions, the nightmares sometimes invaded his mind, and not just at night. Sometimes he would hear a loud noise and jump before he would realize it was just the slam of a door, not a gunshot, and he would have to reassure himself that he was safe. Connie was safe.

But now, the nightmare had returned, overtaking daylight, and its embodiment stood before him: Gray, an easy, superior smile on his face. Other than being pale rather than tanned, he didn't look any worse from having been in prison for months. Jason felt a twinge of envy; Gray had escaped unscathed, while Jason's scars still pained him and shamed him.

"Hello, Jason. It's good to see you again."

"I can't say the same," Jason managed. His whole body was tense; he knew that wasn't good in case of an attack, but he couldn't seem to control his reactions.

_I can't let him control me._ He forced himself to try to relax. Which did not exactly work; anger and—he hated to admit it—fear, sent tremors through him.

Gray laughed; the sound echoed throughout the building. "So, Jason. You still have something I want. This time, are you prepared to give it to me, or do we have to do it the hard way again?"

Jason swallowed. He was paralyzed; Gray loomed in front of him, as powerful as he had been in that shed as he shredded Jason's strength and dignity until almost nothing was left. Jason's vision blurred; he realized his breaths were coming in hard gasps. He made an effort to control his breathing, fingernails digging into his palms, the pain providing an anchor.

_I cannot let him win this time. Even if Sierra has abandoned me, I will take him down before he can hurt me again. Before he can escape and hurt Connie any more._

_Please, Sierra, please be there. I could really use the backup. _

Gray smirked. "I knew your attachments would bring you down. Your girlfriend almost getting blown up broke your resolve."

Jason almost leaped forward then, strangled Gray on the spot. It might come down to that; he was holding out for Sierra, putting his trust in a stranger who might either come through, or betray him.

"I'm not here to discuss anything…personal between us," said Jason. "I just want to get this over with. Do I have Will's guarantee he will leave us alone if I give you the location of the weapon?"

"Your father has yet to agree to any bargain. You still need to convince him in order for this to end."

"That wasn't part of the deal."

"You are in no position to make deals at all. You are at our mercy."

"On the contrary," came a voice from above, "_you_ are at _our _mercy."

Gray whirled around; shock flashed across his normally self-assured face.

On the catwalk, Sierra knelt, aiming her rifle at him through the bars. "Trust me, I'm a good shot. In fact, I've yet to encounter one better."

"Anyone could make that claim." said Gray.

"Yes, but not anyone could back it up." A shot rang out through the empty building. Gray staggered; clutched his shoulder. Blood leaked through his fingers.

"How's that for a warning shot?" said Sierra.

And then she spun into the air, grabbed the railing, and like a gymnast, swung over the bar to the rim of the catwalk and tumbled two stories to the ground to land on her feet, rifle aimed at Gray as she landed.

"On your knees," she said, voice hard, a smile of exultation on her face.

Gray didn't move; his eyes were narrowed at her. His hand still clutched his left shoulder, blood now flowing freely down his arm.

"I said, on your knees."

Gray lowered himself to the ground, hands behind his head; Jason braced himself. The last time Gray had 'surrendered', he'd thrown a blade into Jason's thigh. The man had no honor, no rules in battle; you couldn't let your guard down, even if you seemed to have the upper hand.

Sierra pressed the rifle to his temple. "No hard feelings, eh, Starr? Just all in a day's work. Nothing personal in this business."

"I never conduct this business as if it were personal."

"From what I know of you, your work is what you care most about, so I would say that counts as personal."

"You know about me, but I have never heard of you. You have me at a disadvantage."

"In this game, it's best to keep under the radar. Ironic since my everyday face is anything but nondescript. Works though. Can't exactly say the same for your more anonymous approach."

She withdrew a coil of cord from her belt, where various other weapons hung, including a pistol and a knife. She was nothing if not prepared; Jason felt foolish for having doubted her, though it was understandable since he had no experience working with her. He felt a little useless too; she was swift and professional and all his training had melted away when face to face with this man. It didn't matter who defeated Gray, as long as he was secured so that he never escaped again, but Jason didn't like this feeling of helplessness, of knowing he'd been little more than bait. Could he have even taken Gray down if Sierra hadn't shown up? Or would he have been rooted to the spot, too afraid to take action?

Sierra wound the black cord around Gray's wrists; he gasped, as if in pain, probably from his shoulder wound. He squirmed away; the cord slipped from Sierra's hands, unraveling. Gray grabbed her wrist; she shrieked as if in pain. He kicked her in the side; she staggered backwards.

Jason lunged forward; he had to take Gray down. He slammed his fist toward Gray's face; Gray dodged, flung a punch into Jason's jaw. Pain cut through his tongue; blood flooded his mouth. His vision blurred, he ducked out of the way of another punch but was unprepared for the kick that hit him in the side. Blinding pain hurled him to the cement floor.

Gray advanced toward Jason, but Sierra jabbed her rifle into Gray's stomach, and he doubled over. He recovered before Sierra could attack again, and grabbed her rifle. As he yanked it away from her, she gave him another kick and the rifle flew several yards away. They both dashed toward it but as they did, they fought each other off in a flurry of kicks and punches, most of them blocked by the other. Jason, who struggled to stand, pain cutting through him, couldn't help but admire her. Lightning swift moves flew by in a blur as they maneuvered toward the rifle. Gray was all cold efficiency; Sierra fought with flamboyant whirls that somehow worked, a smile on her face.

While Sierra distracted Gray, Jason inched toward the rifle lying near the opposite end of the warehouse. One of the conditions of their meeting had been no guns, and apparently Gray had honored that end of the bargain at least. Jason wondered what Gray had used to hurt Sierra when she'd tried to tie him up; Jason hadn't seen a weapon.

The rifle lay on the floor, gleaming in the sunlight like a trophy. Ignoring the pain in his side, Jason dove for it, grasped its cold metal, and aimed it at Gray.

The fighting had slowed; Sierra backed away from Gray, looking dazed.

"It's over," said Jason.

"Yes, it is," said Gray, looking at Sierra.

"What—did you do to me?" Sierra's knees buckled beneath her; she fell to the floor. She tried to get up, but Gray kicked her in the stomach and she collapsed, writhing, on the ground.

Gray yanked her pistol from her holster as she fell. Aimed it at her.

"Put down your gun, Jason," said Gray. "Or I kill her." Sierra stopped moving, and laid there, arms spread out as if in surrender.

"You've already killed her."

"No, it's just a knockout drug. She'll live. Unless—" He clicked back the safety on the pistol.

Jason knew he had only one option. But he also knew it would cost him more than he could imagine. He lowered the rifle to the floor, and Gray took it, shouldered it.

Then he stepped toward Jason, and held up his left hand, where a silver ring shone. "Too bad I only had one dose. But it did what I wanted it to." Gray shrugged. "This will have to do." He raised the pistol, and slammed it into the back of Jason's head.

The world shattered into blackness.


	8. Nightmares

**warning: violence in this chapter gets a little intense.**

* * *

Jason's head throbbed. He tried to flip over so he could sleep off the headache, but found he couldn't move.

He opened his eyes. It was pitch black, only a few slices of light stabbing the darkness. He couldn't make out where he was at all, only that he was lying on something cold, like a metal table, and ropes bit into his wrists and ankles. He tried to move again, but the ropes tightened if he moved.

And the memories returned—the fight in the warehouse, Gray knocking Sierra out, and then the gun slamming the back of Jason's head.

Flashes of the Incident blazed across his mind, made worse by the fact he was trapped. Like he'd been when Gray had whipped him, drugged him, pounded nails into his hand.

He tugged on the ropes, pulling with all his strength, letting out a yell fueled by desperation, but the ropes pulled even tighter, cutting into him like knives.

He laid back on the cold table, sparks dancing across his vision, the ache in his head pounding like a hammer. He had to get himself under control, think this through. Somehow, he had to get out of here before Gray reappeared.

His eyes adjusted to the darkness; he was lying in a small room that looked like a cellar. A few blocks of wood were stacked in the corner; some old cans of paint were lined up along the opposite wall. To his left was a staircase that led to what looked like a trapdoor. The place smelled the sweet, musty smell of damp dirt.

The light that filtered through the cracks in the door looked golden, as if the day was waning. He must have been out for several hours.

Panic seized him._ I can't let fear cloud my judgment. I have to get out of here._

_Nice job you did,_ he told himself. _Getting yourself captured was a real good strategy. _

Perhaps it hadn't been the best plan in the first place. Perhaps he should have called the police, had them surround the place. But Gray might not have shown up at all if he knew the police were involved. Sierra had kept hidden—that part had worked. And Sierra had come close to bringing Gray down. But you never knew what kind of tricks Gray had up his sleeve. He'd had a ring of some sort, filled with drug that had knocked Sierra unconsciousness. Jason didn't see a sign of her here, wherever here was. He hoped she was okay.

Footsteps stomped on the floor above. He lay perfectly still, although if someone came in, there was nothing he could do. He was even more helpless than he had been when he'd woken up in the Shed.

A clink of metal. The trapdoor opened, and light poured in, hurting Jason's eyes so he could barely see the silhouette of the figure that entered before darkness enclosed around him again as the door clanged shut.

Steps approached down the stairs. Dread tugged at him; all he wanted to do was close his eyes, go back to sleep, pretend this wasn't happening.

Light flooded the room from a bare light bulb in the center of the ceiling. It blazed into his eyes; he turned away.

A hand grabbed his chin, forced his face forward. Suffused with light, Gray looked down at him. "My dear Jason. We're back where we started, aren't we. Only, this time, it's just us. No bleeding hearts to interfere. No one to rescue you.

"So, do you want to pick up where we left off at the warehouse, and give me the location of the weapon? Or are you going to hold onto that glorious pigheadedness of yours?"

"I can't give my secret to someone who would use it for evil ends."

Gray shrugged. "Will's ends are good; it's his means that are questionable. By your standards, anyway.

"Speaking of which, in case you were wondering what messed up your plans during our little altercation, when Sierra tried to tie me up, I reacted as if I was in pain, and I used her millisecond of hesitation to attack."

"You used Sierra's compassion for you to hurt her?"

"She's a good fighter, but she happens to have a chink in her armor, like most of humanity, which gives me an advantage. My objectivity helps me to see what is and what isn't possible; morality doesn't come into the picture. You both were so predictable. When she succumbed to the drug, all I had to do was aim the gun at her, and you let yourself be captured."

"Where is Sierra?"

"I left her to dwell on her failure. With the time and resources I had at the moment, it was either her or you; you are the one I have unfinished business with."

"I'm not going to give you anything."

"I've heard that before. But I could take a different tactic, of course. I could always bring Connie here—"

"Please, this is between you and me. Keep her out of this."

Gray smiled. He reached for Jason's cheek, fingers brushing his scar. The man's touch sent a shiver of horror through him, and he flinched away. "Don't worry, Jason. I want to keep it simple this time. The more variables, the more chances the operation has of being messed up. Trust me, I've had a lot of time to consider my….unfinished operations."

"Your failures, you mean."

Gray's eyes flashed. Jason braced himself for a blow. Instead, Gray reached for his belt, pulled out a knife. Tapped Jason's chest with its tip. "I've got some interesting things in store for you, Jason. That's another thing I had time to consider, during the long hours I sat in my cell."

Jason looked away. He was going to avoid this reality as long as possible.

Of course, that approach wasn't really practical. He could ignore Gray's voice, close his eyes and shut out the light, but he had never learned to shut out pain.

The knife traced his face in the mockery of a caress, the blade barely brushing his skin. Then it flicked his cheek, bringing a sting and the trickle of blood.

It had begun.

He tried to steel himself against it but the memories blended with the present, sending fear ripping down his veins. For a moment, his mind blanked with terror, and he wasn't sure if he'd said anything or not, or even whether he'd screamed.

Gray lifted the knife; a single drop of blood fell from the blade onto Jason's shirt, the one he'd borrowed from Eugene.

In the parking lot. After the bomb.

_I have to keep him from Connie. As long as he's distracted, he won't be able to set any more bombs. He won't be able to hurt her, or anyone else._

He acknowledged the fear; knew it would never go away, not in here. But he would not let the fear rule him. As long as he did that, Gray could not win. No matter what he did to him.

_Dear God, please help me to hold out. If this is the only thing I can do, help me to bear this, to not give in. _

"Nice scar you've got there," said Gray, the knife running along the scar on his face. Jason tried to control his breathing. He was going to remain as stoic as possible, not let Gray see how much he affected him. "Perhaps I'll give you one to match." He tapped Jason's other cheek. "Or we could just re-cover old territory."

The tip of the knife jabbed into the upper edge of the scar, and sliced into it, a long, stinging slash that started to burn as soon as the knife pulled away.

"The long-dead Akim gave it to you, if I remember right. But now I've claimed it, as I've claimed the rest of you."

"You…aren't quite sane, are you?" Warm blood spilled from the cut, to drip past Jason's ear.

Gray's eyes narrowed. "Maybe not. I can say this, I did experience temporary insanity when they put me in solitary. Who knows, maybe I haven't recovered."

"You were never totally sane."

Gray looked down at him with distaste. "I am more sane than most. The reason I've been such a successful freelancer."

"Funny, I don't see much evidence of success. Unless the definition of success includes jail time."

Probably not the best thing to do—anger the one who had the power of life and death over you. But it felt good to fight back the only way he could—with words. It helped give him the smallest illusion of freedom.

Though whether it was worth it was debatable. Gray's eyes, in shadow from the light, looked like slivers of darkness, anger smoldering in their depths. He stabbed the knife into Jason's shoulder through his shirt. Pain burst through his shoulder, radiating out through his arm. That was the shoulder that had never been the same since being stabbed and dislocated. He gritted his teeth, closed his eyes, fighting the pain, trying to breathe.

But Gray wasn't done. He shoved it in deeper; Jason bit back a scream. Then Gray yanked it out, and stepped away into the dimness beyond the ring of light.

Jason shivered with shock. The nightmare was repeating. Except it was worse—he knew exactly the kind of man he was up against. And it wasn't just himself, but people he loved, who were in danger.

_This is keeping them safe,_ he told himself, as pain throbbed through his shoulder. _I'll keep him occupied—he seems to be the most interested in me, anyway. I've defeated him before—I can do it again. _

Although Jason didn't see much of a way out of this, if he thought about it. Chances were small that he'd escape, or someone would find him.

But he wasn't going to give up, not yet.

_I have to see Connie again. _

Tears stung his eyes in spite of himself, and tumbled down his face. Gray stepped back into the light, looking down at him with a smirk. "What's wrong, Jason? I'm just getting started."

Gray touched the base of Jason's throat with the knife, and then in a swift motion, cut down the center of Jason's shirt, not taking particular care to avoid Jason's skin beneath. A few more slices, and the shredded pieces of the shirt fluttered to the floor.

_That's two shirts in one day_, thought Jason wryly, the bizarre bit of amusement hitting him as his world spun ever darker.

The knife scraped down the center of his chest to stop at the bullet wound beneath his heart. Pricked into it, twisting. Jason tried to writhe away, though he knew it was futile. "This, of course," said Gray, "is my piece de resistance. Though, ironically, the bullet wasn't intended for you. Something that I still am somewhat mystified about."

"What do you mean?"

"Why you stepped in front of that girl. She had you captured, tortured you before I came in to finish the job. Why would you protect her? The only thing I can think of is that the drugs compromised your system. You weren't thinking straight."

Jason almost laughed. "You can't see how someone could act in someone else's interests rather than their own, can you?"

"No one is that disinterested in their own self-preservation."

"You're right. It wasn't me. It was God. He's the only one who could do it—I just had to be willing."

"God!" Gray gave a harsh laugh. "God, drugs—not much difference. Both make people act irrationally. The only difference is, God doesn't exist."

"You don't have any idea how real he is. He's here, in this room right now." The thought poured strength into him.

"You don't have to preach to me. I've heard it all."

"Maybe you haven't heard it enough."

"I grew up with it. Church on Sunday, Bible camp, Christian school, the whole nine yards. I could speak the lingo, but I was never totally comfortable with it. I could see the hollowness of it, the pretension, the hypocrisy. I couldn't understand why no one else could see it too; then after I escaped to college, a whole new world opened up to me. I embraced my own freedom: the freedom to be who I was, without any restraints."

"There's hollowness in that kind of freedom. Freedom, without anyone or anything more important than yourself. You're the one who's too far gone to see the narrowness of that life. Sure, there's hypocrisy in the church. But there's also grace, and freedom, a freedom you can't begin to understand unless you've experienced it."

"Yes, I can see how free you are," said Gray. "And how much your God cares about you."

He pressed the knife across Jason's ribs, opening up a gash. This time, pain overwhelmed him, wringing a scream from the center of his being.

The only thing that got him through the next hour was escaping into his mind—to the mountain, beside the crystal blue of the lake, where Connie was waiting for him with a beautiful smile.

L

Connie sat up straight, her head punishing her with a wave of pain. She'd been sleeping, but now she was wide awake, heart pounding.

"What's wrong?" From the chair in the corner of the hospital room, Katrina looked up from her magazine and set it in her lap.

"I—I don't know. It was like a dream. I can't remember any of it—but it gave me this horrible feeling." She touched her heart. "I think—Jason's in trouble."

"How do you know?"

Connie shook her head. "It's just a feeling. But—I've been getting…feelings like that over the past few months. It's been getting stronger—it's like me and Jason are linked somehow. I can sense when he's in pain and isn't telling me. When he's had a bad day, I know, even if I haven't seen him yet. But this—it's on a whole new level. It's so strong—I just know he's in trouble. Katrina, what do I do? I have to do something—" She started to crawl out of bed; her head spun, and she fell. Katrina caught her in her arms, laid her gently back in bed.

"I know you're worried about Jason. But you're in no condition to get out of bed like that."

"There has to be something I can do!" Pain clutched her heart, worse, far worse, than the pain in her head.

"Maybe we should try calling him again."

Connie nodded; held out her hand for the cell phone. Katrina hesitated, then handed it to her. Connie dialed Jason's cell number; when she couldn't get it, she dialed his home phone, which he rarely answered. Maybe his cell phone was dead. Maybe there was a rational explanation.

Last time she'd seen him, he'd left with that strange woman. That was about five hours ago. It was getting dark outside. Even if she hadn't had that feeling, she would have started to get worried by now. She felt so powerless, sitting here with an injured head. If she could, she'd go out into the darkness and search for him herself.

Maybe Whit had heard something. If not, maybe he could do something. She dialed his cell phone; he answered.

"Whit?" Her voice was high and hoarse with panic.

"Connie, are you okay?"

"Have you heard from Jason lately?"

"No, I haven't. I called him a while ago, and he didn't answer."

"I just called him. I think…something's happened."

"How do you know?"

She told him about the feeling. "Am I being silly and paranoid, Whit? After all that's happened, I can't help but assume the worst, but I don't know, maybe getting hit on the head is affecting my judgment and—"

"Connie."

"What?"

"I feel it too. Probably not the same as you do, but now that you brought it up, there's this…tension, like my heart knows there's something wrong but my head won't acknowledge it. I've been so wrapped up in this project I haven't even noticed how much time has passed since I heard from Jason last." Connie heard fear in Whit's voice; that scared her more than anything. "I felt the same thing when Jason was kidnapped last time."

"It couldn't be Gray. He's in prison."

"Hasn't Katrina told you?"

"I've been asleep most of the afternoon. Told me what?"

"Gray escaped."

Her breath caught in her throat. "Oh, no. Whit, he has Jason. We have to save him. We can't let him—I can't bear the thought of him getting hurt again. He's already been through so much." Tears spilled from her eyes. Katrina touched her shoulder, tentatively; Connie leaned toward her, and Katrina slid onto the bed beside her.

"More than anyone should have in a lifetime," said Whit. "Especially…my son." His voice caught. "Listen, Connie, I'm going to do everything I can to find him. I'll call the police, make sure they're out looking for him. Then I'll go out looking for him, if I can't see any other way."

"Thanks, Whit. I wish I could do something to help."

"There's always prayer."

"I know. But—I thought all this was behind us. I thought we were going to be together—we were so happy, Whit! Why did this have to happen? Just this morning—" A sob shook her, tears falling hot onto her cheeks. "If that man hurts Jason again, I swear—" she wiped tears from her face. "Sorry, Whit. I better let you go."

She hung up, and Katrina held her, though she envisioned someone rescuing Jason, hurting Gray for a change.

_Maybe,_ she thought_, I'll escape this hospital and go look for Jason….If there's the smallest chance I can find him, it'll be worth it. Even if it kills me._

To lose him would be worse than death.


	9. Fears

**Warning: some more violence in this chapter. You can skip through the middle of it if you don't want to read it.**

* * *

Whit set down his phone on his desk. He'd just finished speaking with the police; they said they'd 'do all they could' to find Jason. But really, how much could they do? It wasn't even confirmed that Jason was missing, or that Gray was in Odyssey. The police couldn't base their investigation on a feeling; they had to go where the evidence led. So far, they'd found very little evidence from the bombing; the materials used in the bomb were very common and most could have been purchased in a hardware store.

Meanwhile, Will's deadline was growing closer, and if Gray had Jason—Whit shuddered to think what was happening to his son at that very moment. As Whit watched over Jason's recovery, he'd witnessed the almost superhuman struggle that Jason had experienced in order to try to deal with what happened. His mind had gone some dark places, and Whit's heart broke for him as he saw the pain he was going through, unable to help him since he had to work through a lot of it on his own. For a while, Whit had been afraid that he would never fully recover. Then, slowly, Jason had improved. Though Whit knew the scars in his mind ran so deep he'd probably never be the same, Jason seemed to be returning to some semblance of normalcy. Even better than normal now that Connie and Jason had fallen in love. Though Whit had suspected long ago, it had not sunk in from this morning, partly because of the explosion that ripped the day into sorrow.

If Gray had Jason again, could even Connie help him recover from the darkness this time? If….he survived.

Whit looked at his watch. 9:00. Only 36 hours till the deadline.

Whit had yet to give Eugene the go-ahead to implement the plan. Partly because doing so was borderline illegal. 'Borderline' because it had never been attempted. If they were caught, the authorities probably wouldn't look too kindly on their activities.

Should you fight fire with fire? It had always been his philosophy not to.

But time was counting down. His shop had been bombed, children had been injured. Connie had come close to death. Now, Jason had been captured. This was war. If it hadn't been before, it was now. In a war, decisions had to be made quickly, even if they had the potential to be the wrong ones.

_I have a weapon. The only casualty will be Will. _

_I will not lose another son to war. _

He stepped back into the computer room. Eugene swiveled toward him, looked up expectantly, the blue of the computer reflecting off his glasses.

Whit gave him a nod.

"I should begin?" said Eugene.

"I don't ask this lightly. If you want to back out, I'd understand."

Eugene shook his head. "The risks are outweighed by the potential of resolving this, once and for all."

"It's still a longshot, but if we cut off the head, Will's organization will collapse. That's what I'm hoping."

"I will do my best."

"We will have to wait till Will calls in order to hack into his phone."

"I will try to have the program ready by then."

"If you'd like to start out, I'll take over, and you can take a break. Unless you'd like the other way around."

"No, that's fine. You have launched me on the right path. I want to get to work while I am 'on a roll', as you might say."

Whit smiled. "If you don't mind, I'll step out for a little. I need some fresh air."

Whit went downstairs, and surveyed the damage—the blackened hole in the center of the shop, outlined by police tape. An immeasurable sadness burned through his heart.

He stepped outside, the door jingling; a cool breeze blew past. Desolation seized him, and the feeling overwhelmed him that his son was once again alone, in pain. He sat down on the doorstep, his head in his hands. A sob shook him, and he wept.

J

Jason shivered with cold. Night had fallen, and the temperature in the cellar had dropped. He lay in the darkness, pain from the cuts raging into him with each breath he took.

After finishing with the knife, Gray had turned out the light, and disappeared back through the trapdoor. He'd been gone for a while, but every moment, Jason expected him to return. Gray had hinted he'd just scratched the surface for what he had in store for him. Jason tried to get a handle on the fear but his imagination exploded with the countless ways Gray could hurt him.

He knew God was with him, but right now, he could not sense his presence. He tried to think of Connie again, but every image of her had been corrupted by fear that she would be killed. Her beautiful face fled him, and receded into darkness.

Leaving him alone.

The trapdoor opened. Gray stepped over and turned on the light.

"Ready for round two?" said Gray.

Hatred for Gray's voice, his callous words, flashed through Jason. All he wanted to do was smash his fist into that pale smooth face.

"I would never give anything of value to someone as detestable as you."

"All right then. I win either way; I get the intel, or we get to have some more fun together." Gray reached in a pocket in his shirt, and took out a cigarette. A lighter flared to life and Gray touched the cigarette to it. "I never allowed smoking to become a habit," he said, "But as a tool of interrogation—it's surprising how much pain an instrument like this can cause." He inhaled some smoke as the cigarette's embers glowed red-orange. Gray brought it close to Jason's chest and he could feel the heat emanating from it. Then, Gray pressed it into one of the knife wounds.

Jason cried out in pain.

He had told himself he wasn't going to react but Gray tore every layer of resolve from him. He hated the fact that he'd given this man the satisfaction of seeing his weakness, and was afraid that, if he got this far, maybe his strength would not hold out much longer, despite his best efforts.

Gray flicked the cigarette onto the floor. The cut burned as if a white-hot rod was boring through him. He felt sick. He closed his eyes, turned away, trying to fight off the nausea.

Gray slapped his face. "Look at me, Jason. You're going to give in anyway; you might as well do it now, save yourself some pain."

Jason shook his head.

"Where is the weapon?" He took out another cigarette, lit it. Smoke filled the room.

The cigarette lowered to his arm. Jason held onto the conviction that he would not give Gray a reaction this time. It burned against the tender flesh under his arm and when Jason didn't scream, Gray held it there until it burned out and shook the ashes to the floor.

Tears of pain ran down his face, but he smiled in triumph. He could do this.

"Now, you know that the worst type of pain is a burn, but sometimes that can get numbing. We've gone through knives, of course. I didn't have time to pick up many supplies on the way here." He rubbed his chin. The movement shifted his shirt, showing the bandage, blood seeping through it, from when Sierra had shot him. Jason couldn't help but wish the shot had done a little more damage; Jason might not be here right now.

"In prison, they interrogated me—what they called interrogations, anyway. I never came close to giving in; the only thing that almost broke me was the fact that I was trapped, my freedom taken away from me. What do you fear, Jason? You fear me, I know, but not to the point of breaking.

"So, Jason. Do you want me to keep intensifying the pressure? Or will you just give in?"

_If it means I'm keeping him from setting any more bombs so the others can find a break in the investigation, I have to do my part. Even if it means…_this_._

_But maybe….maybe I can give him false information. He might see through it; then again…it might buy me more time. _

_I have to give in at the right moment, or it won't seem genuine. Unfortunately, that means…letting him do whatever he's thinking of next._

Gray took out a small blade, and flipped open his lighter. Then he touched the flame beneath the knife, heating it until its edges glowed red.

The blade pressed against Jason's side, severing every thought, slicing his soul into bright slivers of pain. Sobs shook him as tears flowed down his cheeks.

"Now will you tell me?"

Jason was silent, trying to catch his breath. Then he said, "Will you promise not to hurt anyone else?"

"No deals, remember."

"The—formula is in a safe. It's in Singapore."

"And where exactly is this safe?"

He hesitated. Even telling false information seemed like giving in. Everything inside him rebelled against this. "It's…." He shook his head. "I can't give you such information—I swore not to—"

"You've already betrayed your ideals by telling me this much. More won't matter."

Jason had to come up with something that sounded good. He'd been in Singapore, after all. He blurted out the first thing that came to his mind. "The Marina Hotel."

Gray nodded. "I've heard of it. I think I will give Will a call, and see if he has someone to verify your claim."

He went upstairs, leaving Jason in the darkness once again.

He lay there, wishing unconsciousness would claim him, but the pain and persistent nausea kept him awake.

Connie. He conjured up her face again. She seemed so near, so real. He longed to be next to her, so he could entwine his fingers in hers. Lean beside her, his arm around her shoulder, her hair brushing against his cheek.

The fear he might never see her again in this life as more than an illusion churned like a whirlwind through his mind, nearly devouring the hope he'd felt a moment before.

_I am not going to let him take away what's most precious to me,_ thought Jason. _He can't take away my love for her. He can't take away my memories, my thoughts, my will. As long as I hold onto who I am, he cannot defeat me; even if he shatters my body into a thousand pieces, he cannot crush my soul._

The door creaked open and Gray descended. Jason moved on the table, slick with sweat and blood. He tugged experimentally on the ropes; of course, they didn't give.

"Well, that was interesting," said Gray. "You're going to have to lie a little more convincingly for me to believe you."

"I didn't lie."

"Another lie. My, my, Jason. I called Will. He contacted security for the Marina Hotel, and they said that you had never crossed their doorstep."

"I never personally went there. A courier did."

"I see. That's plausible, I suppose. So who is this mysterious courier?"

Jason had to keep up the fabrication as long as possible. "I don't want you to find him."

Gray shook his head. "You'll have to do better than that. I thought we'd get to this point, however. Before a subject reveals the truth, he often tells a lie, to see if he can get away with it. A skilled interrogator knows their subject and can catch contradictions in their replies. But often there is a kernel of truth in the lie; I just have to find out what it is."

He grabbed Jason's hair, pulled back his head. A fire smoldered deep in Gray's normally cold eyes. He was no longer impersonal, coldly professional, as he had been in the shed; there was an undercurrent of malice in all that he did. Jason shook with the realization that there was nowhere that Gray would not go in an effort to hurt him as much as possible.

"I think it's time I put you in a different position," said Gray. "But to make sure you don't escape when I do so—" He pulled out his gun, studied it. "It really is too bad I can't bring Connie here. Hurting her would probably give me results much faster. But then, she's in already danger where she is."

"You can't hurt her while you're here with me."

"Is that what you're holding out for? My dear Jason." Gray laughed. It rang throughout the cellar. "I'm not the only one working for Will. Did you really think he has so few resources he'd entrust this operation to one person? Even I can't be in two places at once."

Despair pulled Jason into a current of darkness. Everything he'd been doing—trying to protect her from Gray—had been futile.

Gray looked down at him in exultation. "So, I've found the thing you fear most. You can bear up under so much pain, but when others are in danger—You might as well break, Jason. The only thing between her death and her survival is information. Yours. Or do you need a little more motivation? Pressure at multiple points is the best way to get results." He clicked back the safety on the gun. Pressed it into Jason's knee. "How's this for pressure?"

Boom! Jason jumped. He expected a bullet to explode through his knee, but the sound had come from above. Gray looked up, gun poised in his hand. He dashed over to the stairs, and crept next to the trapdoor, listening.

Then, he lifted the door, slipped through it, and was gone.

Jason waited, adrenaline masking the pain at the moment, his heart thudding hard against his chest.

Upstairs, a scuffling sound. Then, the muffled 'bang', the unmistakable sound of a gunshot.

Silence.

A few moments later, the trapdoor opened.

A figure appeared, looking cautiously down. A woman. She crept forward into the light, revealing blue-streaked hair pulled back from her pale, elegant face, dark eyes shot through with horrified sympathy.

Sierra.


	10. Enemies

**Some violence in this chapter. Not toward Jason for a change...**

* * *

"Oh, Jason," said Sierra, eyes filling with tears. She blinked them away, and, face determined, she yanked the ropes away with a few expert twists. She untied his ankles as well, and then helped him sit up. It took a few minutes for him to get enough feeling in his feet to try to stand; even then, she had to support him.

"Would you like to sit down before trying the stairs?" she said.

"I have to get out of here."

"I don't blame you for that."

With Sierra supporting his right side, pain stabbing him from all directions, he half-crawled, half-stumbled up the stairs, and then collapsed on the floor. He barely took in his surroundings, but it looked like he was in an old farmhouse. Yellow curtains flapped in the breeze from an open window. He drank in the fresh air, chest heaving, the floor cool beneath him.

Sierra propped him up. "Here," she said. She thrust the tip of a water bottle in his mouth; he swallowed cold, sweet water. When she pulled it away, he grabbed for it; she clicked her tongue. "You know you can't have more than that; you're dehydrated." She laid him back on the floor. Disappeared through a doorway for a moment, then returned with a bag slung over her shoulder. She knelt beside him, and pulled out a generous bundle of white rags.

"Let me warn you, Jason. This isn't going to feel very good."

"I'm—used to that."

She shook her head. "He sure worked you over, didn't he. I'm sorry I didn't get here sooner—I was out for a while, then I had to try to find this place."

"That's okay."

"Now try to stay still. It won't be easy, but it'll be harder if you move." She poured some of the water from the bottle over one of the rags and then pressed it to the deepest of the cuts across his chest. He focused on trying to stay still—nearly impossible with the pain the pressure of the rag caused. The only way he could stand it was knowing it was essential that she clean the wounds.

After laying wet cloths on the worst of the cuts and burns, she dabbed the other cuts and poured water over them for good measure. Then she took something else out of the bag: a white tube. "This works wonders," she said. "It's a special concoction I came up with myself. Excellent for field injuries." She squeezed some clear salve on her fingers, and spread it across the more shallow cuts. It hurt at first, but then it had a numbing effect, soothing him, helping him relax.

"What's in this?" asked Jason.

"A lot of things. The most important of which is an antiseptic."

She took cloths off of the long slash across his chest, his stabbed shoulder, and the burn on his side, the worst of his injuries, and spread cream onto them as well, applying it generously. In a few moments, the pain had all but dissolved.

Finally, she put some on his face, where his scar had been laid open again. As she did so, he glimpsed a crisscross of scars on the underside of her arm, and rough ridges of skin around her wrist. He knew all too well the kind of scars that ropes caused.

"What happened?" he asked.

She flinched away, eyes guarded, their depths hinting at darkness and deep pain. Finally she said, "It was a long time ago. I'd rather not…go there, if it's all the same to you."

"I'm sorry. I know what it's like to not want someone prying into my past."

She gave a short nod. "Thank you. Can you move?"

"I think so." He sat up; miraculously, most of the pain was gone, though aches warned him not to move too quickly. He was also terribly stiff, probably from lying in the same position for hours.

After swiftly applying bandages, she helped him over to the couch, which was spread with a white sheet, as were the chairs. He wobbled a little bit; she said, "This stuff also makes you a little…out of it. Compliments of the powerful painkiller."

He sat down, rather in a haze, come to think of it. Light from a chandelier above the center of the room illuminated the wood floors and doorways.

"Where is this?" he asked.

"It's an old farmhouse," said Sierra, perched on the armrest of the couch. "About forty miles from Odyssey, in the middle of nowhere. Probably why no one wants to live here. Looks like it's been for sale for a while."

"Makes sense why…_he'd_ pick this place. How did you find me?"

"Wasn't easy. When I came to, took a while for me to recover. Had to bind up my ribs—"

"What?"

"That idiot kicked a crack into my ribs. Two, maybe. I'll be fine. Anyway, I deduced the direction he would go, and then I just started driving. Was about to go back, head another way, when I saw the light in the basement of this house. I stopped, and heard a scream."

"That would have been me."

She smiled wryly. "Yes, and I crept up next to the house, heard that last bit, when he figured out your lie. You held out admirably."

"This was nothing compared to…last time."

She nodded. "As painful as what Starr gave you, these are only shallow wounds for the most part. That burn on your side's probably the worst of it. I shouldn't have been so lenient with him in that warehouse, knowing how ruthless he is. I've learned my lesson; I'll never be caught off guard by him again."

The question hung in the air; it couldn't be delayed any longer. "Is he—still alive?"

"Oh, yes. I shot him, though. Even if he escapes from the closet I locked him in, which I doubt since I'm the best at tying ropes that I know of, he won't be able to get far. Even so, I don't like leaving him alone like this for very long. I should go and check on him." She stood, sliding her hand along the pistol at her hip as if reassuring herself it was still there.

"What are you going to do with him?"

"I think this warrants a call to Vivian. Excuse me, Jason." She stepped swiftly from the room.

Jason lay back against the couch, exhaustion overtaking him. But he could not relax, not totally. Gray was still in the house. Jason didn't think he could ever rest as long as that man was alive. Even if he was locked in the darkest dungeon, he'd find a way to escape and attack Jason and destroy everything he loved…

_I should really call Dad_, he thought. _I need to let him know I'm all right. And Connie….I need to hear her voice._

His thoughts melded into dreams, and before he knew it, he had drifted off to sleep.

He shot awake. He'd heard a sharp sound. He tried to get up—and tumbled off the couch, before he fully realized where he was. Pain smoldered across his skin; the salve must have been wearing off. The fog had partly cleared from his mind. He pushed himself up, and meandered shakily through the house.

The floor creaked beneath his feet. Cautiously, he made his way through the darkened rooms, over the linoleum of the kitchen, following the noise.

He stepped up the stairs; the exertion it took to get to the top had him breathing hard, barely crawling forward. _I hate this,_ he thought. _The terrible infirmity that pain gives you. _

Trepidation gripped him, but he kept moving anyway. Sierra might be in trouble. He'd help her, even though he didn't have a weapon.

He stepped into one of the bedrooms, empty except for a dusty woven rug in the center of the floor. The next room was the master bedroom.

Inside, Sierra stood beside the four-poster bed, and in front of the open closet door sat a chair, and in the chair, a man was bound. His head hung, but Jason knew who it was in a heartbeat. Gray. A bandage was tied across his knee, soaked deep red. His white shirt, open at the collar, was spattered with blood.

Then, Gray looked up. Above his broken nose, his cold blue eyes met Jason's; Jason stepped back, on instinct.

"Ah, Jason," said Gray. "Welcome to the party."

Sierra turned. "Hi Jason. I see you're feeling better. Want a front row seat? I'm sure you wouldn't mind seeing this man get a taste of his own medicine."

Jason moved slowly forward, in a daze, and sat on the bed. He wasn't quite sure what he was doing here, or what he should be doing, but he had to admit, he was glad that Gray was tied up for a change.

"Vivian gave me the green light to start an interrogation," said Sierra, "get the information from him that Vivian and her partner were unable to. Finish the job so her lover's death is not in vain. For me, the motivation is purely monetary, except I have to admit there is a certain appeal in teaching scum like this a lesson." Her eyes flashed over Jason's injuries. His cheeks flushed; he felt self-conscious, even though she'd been the one to help him in the first place. "I think you have as much motivation as my employer for getting information, maybe even more so, because you need to prevent a crime. You need to know who Will is in order to stop the bombs."

"And who his other employee is," said Jason.

"Other employee?"

"That's what Gray told me. He didn't set the bombs. Someone else did."

"He could be lying, then again—" She turned to Gray. "We'll find out, won't we?"

Gray looked up. Smiled.

A shudder ran down Jason's spine. He almost got up to leave, but he was unable to move.

Sierra walked around Gray, catlike in her gracefulness. She brushed his shoulder with her hand; slid it down over his neck. Then she leaned over, spoke in his ear, "I want to know who you are working for, Starr. If that's even your real name, which I doubt. I know this game, the game of us freelancers. We thrive on anonymity, one way or another. Your real name is buried so deep beneath your aliases you probably barely remember it." She ran her forefinger along his jawline, cupped his chin in her hand. "I wouldn't mind if you gave me your real name. It's not the main thing I'm after, but it'd be a start."

"Is Sierra Yu _your_ real name? Somehow I doubt it."

"Maybe it is, maybe it isn't. I'm not the subject of this investigation. You've targeted others too long; it's time you were the target."

"I have been for five months."

"But you haven't had the kind of one-on-one attention I can give you."

"I doubt anything you can do can make much of a difference. I am as good at taking pain as giving it."

She smiled. "I doubt you know pain the way I do."

"What do you mean by that?"

"I don't just guess what others feel. I know. You, who have no empathy, can only see the surface. That is why I will always be better at my job than someone like you."

"A conscience is a liability. That is why you failed in the warehouse."

"A mistake I won't make again. It's my policy to meet my opponents at their own level—and then beat them at it. I have a conscience, but I'm able to shove it aside when dealing with your kind."

"And what kind is that?"

"The kind that tramples on everything good and destroys it." Jason was surprised at the venom in her voice. As if this was personal rather than just another job. She stepped back, and pulled a large knife out of her belt. "Since you can't empathize with Jason, I think you should feel what he felt. _I_ will be your conscience_,_ Starr."

She stepped behind him again, and pulled the flat of the blade across his cheek. Then the knife pressed into it, leaving a long cut. But Gray barely reacted. He looked up at Sierra, as if to say, this is nothing.

A part of Jason wanting her to _make_ him feel it, in a small way make up for the darkness and horror that Jason had experienced over the past few months.

Sierra tore Gray's shirt down the center, pressed tip of the knife to his chest, then twisted it, slowly boring it into him. Finally in a quick slash she ripped the knife across his chest, blood flying through the air to splatter against his white shirt.

Memories flashed across Jason's vision. Blood, his own blood, on a knife. He felt sick. He lunged to his feet, barely able to stand, and tore down the hallway, looking for a bathroom. Found one. He knelt beside the toilet, his stomach heaving. A knot of pain clutching his stomach, he sat back against the wall, shivering, his head throbbing. He tried to keep his mind blank; just thinking about what was happening in that room made him feel sick. Dark static danced across his vision.

The sound of a footstep. He jumped, though he knew he couldn't do much if someone decided to attack him. Sierra stood in the doorway, hand on her hip. She brushed a strand of hair back from her face. "Jason—I'm sorry. I didn't think it would affect you, that way—but seeing as you've only just escaped him, no wonder." She crouched beside him, held up his head. "Here. I'll get you somewhere more comfortable."

She helped him to his feet, and then guided him down the hallway, and they slowly made their way down the stairs, one step at a time.

"Do you want to go to a hospital?" Sierra asked. "I'm sorry I didn't think about it. When I'm on a job, I get one-track-minded. And of course I don't go to a hospital myself if I can help it—I have to be nearly dying in order to check myself in. Even then—I've dealt with so many injuries in the field, I forget that hospitals are there to help those who need them."

He could barely think straight in order to give her an answer. But he instinctively did not want to go to a hospital. He didn't want the scrutiny from everyone, he didn't want anyone to know this had happened to him again. He didn't want people feeling sorry for him; he wanted to be able to do something. Not be a victim anymore.

"I don't want a hospital. I…think I just need rest. A lot of it." Realization sparked across his mind. "My dad—I need him to know I'm okay. Do you have your cell phone?"

She nodded. She helped him back to the couch, and he lay back with relief.

Sierra gave him a bottle of water and a couple pills. "Don't take them until you're ready to go to sleep. They'll put you out like _that_." She snapped her fingers. "They also keep the pain down and reduce fever."

He nodded, and took the cell phone. "One more thing," she said, "Don't tell anyone where you are. If you need to go home, I'll take you a little ways down the road. Okay? I don't want anyone interrupting me till I'm done. Just yell if you need me. I'll be upstairs." She trotted back up the creaky steps; Jason tried not to think about what she'd be doing once she got there.

Jason had to think for a moment before he could recall his father's cell number. He waited as it rang and rang, but didn't get an answer. He tried his home phone, with the same result.

He dialed Connie's phone. No answer.

He left a message, telling them he was all right; he'd save the rest of the explanation for when he got back.

He wanted to go back of his own volition, without Sierra's help; he needed to at least recover enough to walk to the next house to borrow their phone and call someone to pick him up. To have enough energy to do that, he'd have to sleep.

Longing burned through him; he needed to see Connie, in reality not just his imagination. Touch her, press his lips to her delicate hand, look into her river-blue eyes, feel the warmth of her lips beneath his.

The only way to rest, to quell these feelings racing through him, would be to take the pills. When he awoke, he would be that much closer to seeing her.

Jason slipped the pills into his mouth, and took a sip of water. Not long after he set the water bottle on the floor, sleep overtook him, embracing him in the dark comfort of oblivion.


	11. Weapons

Here is a short chapter.

* * *

Whit's phone rang. The screen said 'restricted'. He motioned to Eugene, mouthed, _It's him._ Eugene nodded, and began typing furiously as Whit said, "Hello?"

"Hello, Whit," said a low, mechanically distorted voice. "You were wondering when I was going to call, weren't you. Have you had enough yet? Or do I need to give you another demonstration?"

Anger surged through him. He struggled to keep it in check; he had to keep Will talking. "Can't you just leave us in peace?"

"Peace. That is my goal. If you want peace, then perhaps you will consider giving me what I want."

"If you use methods like this, I'm not very optimistic about what the future will look like in your hands."

"If the only way to obtain peace is through violence, then the end more than justifies the means. Of course, if you would just give me Zephyr, and your son would give me his secret, then even the means would be much more peaceful. I have the pieces assembled to take over the world; I have weapons from every corner poised to attack centers of power. But I would much rather do so without a shot fired. You can save lives, Whit. The lives of your people, and thousands more. You will be ushering in a new world, without wars, without hate. I am offering you the chance to be a part of it."

"I would never be a part of slavery disguised as peace that you propose."

"Well, then. If I can't reason with you, I'll have to do this the hard way. I don't want to, but then, I have to make sacrifices in order to pave the way for the future."

Whit cringed at the word 'sacrifice'—Connie was in the hospital; Jason was missing. How dare this man ask him to sacrifice them for a cause he did not even believe in. "We will never have peace on this earth," said Whit. "The most we can hope for here is temporary cease-fire, or the artificial peace that demands slavery of some to another's will. True peace is what only God can give."

"I gave up on God a long time ago," said Will. "He never came through for me when I needed him, and so I decided to create a new world without any god to help me."

"Setting yourself up in God's place is the most dangerous sin."

"I can see we're not going to see eye-to-eye on this. I just thought I would try to get you to see reason, but with people as recalcitrant as you, violence is the only means of coercion." He sighed. "One last chance to do this without anyone else getting hurt. Going once—going twice—"

Whit held his breath. He knew by now that Will was not bluffing. The next time a bomb went off, it might do more than injure. But the plan just might work; he had to hold out until then.

"Okay. On the twenty-four hour mark—I'm sure you remember when that is—another bomb will start ticking. Have fun trying to find it, because it will be in a place you least suspect. But this time, it will have more than just a few ounces of explosives.

"I am generous. You can still stop this. You can save thousands of lives, if you act within the time frame I offer. I will be in contact." He hung up.

"Did you get through?" said Whit, turning to Eugene, who was sitting in front of the computer.

Eugene shook his head. "I would have—only his phone has so many security measures in place, when I broke down one barrier, another would appear. I'm sorry."

Whit's heart sank. "You did your best. At least we know he'll call again."

"And at least I know what some of the blocks are. It _is _a smartphone. If it were a regular cell phone, it would be less compatible with Zephyr while we to try to glean its data."

Whit nodded. "Did Will know what we were doing?"

"I don't know. It is what Zephyr is good at—getting in without anyone knowing."

"You sound like you know the program as much as I do."

"If only I did. I have learned a lot in the past few hours. I just…don't know if it's enough." A pained look crossed Eugene's face.

"If I could work with Zephyr and talk to Will at the same time, I'd be able to do this on my own, but that's not the case. We'll have to wait till next time, whenever that is."

"I will try to know more about the program before then."

"I'll try to keep him on the line longer. But you never know when he'll hang up…

"I thought Zephyr was the right way, but now—It still may be our only hope. I just wish I could come up with multiple plans of attack. It's just that…my mind is barely functioning as it is." Whit sat back in the chair, wishing more than anything he could lay back, sleep for a hours, and wake up to a normal day, serving kids behind the counter, not the scorched floor that was downstairs, a Whit's End that might never reopen.

"My mental capacity also seems to be severely limited at the moment," said Eugene. "The only thing that I want to do more than sleep is to see Katrina."

"Would you like to?"

"I can't leave you here alone."

"I doubt Will will call within the next hour or so. You need a break. It'll help you focus when you come back."

Eugene nodded, weary gratefulness in his eyes. "I will see if I can bring back some sort of stimulant that will keep us awake. And I will see how Connie is and report back to you in an hour."

"Thank you, Eugene."

Eugene left, and Whit sat back, the dim light from the lamp on his desk throwing long shadows on the wall. The computer hummed, the code on its screen idly flashing.

_It has to work,_ thought Whit. _It's the only weapon I have. But at least, if our endeavor fails, it means that it's not the all-powerful weapon Will thinks it is…_

Something flashed across the screen of his phone. A new voice message. He opened voice mail and listened.

Jason. Relief flooded him, until he heard the pain in his voice that belied the message. What if Jason had been forced to make that message? What if he wasn't really fine? He hadn't said where he was.

Whit called Jason's number, but he didn't pick up. He left a message, telling him briefly about Will's call.

Then he sat back, at a loss. The weapon had not worked. His son was in the hands of a sadistic murderer. Will would unleash more bombs across the city in a little more than a day. What could he possibly do?

Zephyr might be his only physical weapon, but it wasn't the only one he had at his disposal, and not even the most powerful.

Whit leaned over his desk, forehead in his folded hands, and prayed, tears spilling from his eyes onto the old, polished wood.

J

Connie stirred. She peeked at Katrina; she was sleeping, head back against the headrest, magazine open in her lap. Penny and Wooton had gone home an hour ago at Katrina's insistence; outside Connie's door, a policeman paced, his predecessor's shift having been relieved about fifteen minutes ago.

She could escape past Katrina, but she wouldn't be able to get past the policeman. And then there were the myriad nurses and hospital staff between her and the outside door. To escape would be terribly selfish; she wouldn't inflict that on everyone.

Still, she found herself mulling the idea over in her mind. She had to do something. To just lie here, while Jason was out there, in Gray's hands—

The feeling was as strong as ever, pounding with every beat of her heart against her chest, that Jason was in trouble. She longed to be with him; at least she could take some of his pain from him, bear it herself. She longed to kiss him, like a mother would kiss a child who had been injured. But he was so far away. He couldn't come to her; she couldn't go to him. The agony of their separation filled her heart; she curled up on the bed, longing burning through the center of her being.

If only she could contact him—if only a message could fly to him through the air to where he was—

Wait a second. She mentally berated herself for not thinking of it earlier. But then, she'd hardly been herself, with her head injury and the drugs in her system. Her phone. She didn't have it with her—they must have taken it when she went into surgery. If it had even survived the bomb.

She turned over, looked at Katrina. Hating to wake her up. "Katrina?" She said, her voice barely above a whisper. She cleared her throat. "Katrina?"

Katrina stirred; the magazine fell off her lap onto the floor with a 'slap'. She dove for it, and said, "Are you okay, Connie?"

"I'm fine. I need to see if Jason left a message. Do you know where my phone is?"

"I can check." Katrina left; a few minutes later, she brought in Connie's phone.

Connie took it as if it were a bottle bearing a precious message from across the sea. She dialed voice mail.

And there was Jason's voice. His beautiful, beautiful voice. She immersed in it, reveling in the fact that he was alive.

But pain made his voice ragged, tense. And despite his message that he was fine, he didn't sound like himself. And his message had been too short, abrupt. She listened to it again, and her alarm grew.

The feeling in her heart told her that wherever he was, he was in the midst of danger.

She called him, but he didn't answer. She left a message, putting all her love into her voice, hoping that, if he got it, she could somehow help him through whatever darkness he had yet to face.


	12. Defenses

Another short chapter. :) Yay for quick updates! I am writing ahead-I have chapter 13 written but needs some fixing. It will probably be very long to make up for the previous chapters.

* * *

A scream. Jason shot awake, then realized the scream was not his own.

He sat up, slowly, stiffly. Grayish-yellow light seeped through the windows past the silhouettes of trees in the east. A gust of wind blew against the house; its wooden skeleton creaked and groaned.

Another scream. Jason stood, heart thundering in his chest. He didn't know what Sierra was doing to Gray, but it had to be terrible to elicit a scream from someone like him.

Jason swayed on his feet; he grabbed the armrest of the couch to steady himself. He didn't want to lie down again; he was feeling much better—not a hint of sickness, and very little pain, though he was terribly weak. Probably from loss of blood, trauma, and not eating for almost 20 hours.

He waited, listening. There were no more screams.

As much as Gray had done, as much as he probably deserved everything he got, Jason had never believed in torturing someone for information, and he wasn't about to start. There had to be another way. Even though he wasn't complicit in what Sierra was doing, just standing by implied approval. He had been too sick last night to do much of anything, even think straight. Now he had some of his strength back, he would use it to act.

He climbed the stairs, and stood in the hallway, dread filling him. He wasn't sure what he was about to step into.

"I don't—even know—who Will is," said a ragged, breathless voice that Jason barely recognized.

"You're lying," said Sierra.

"It's the truth. Will doesn't want anyone to know who he is. It's what's protected him all this time while he gathers his forces."

"But there are some within his inner circle he entrusts with more information. You know more than you are letting on, I know that much. You haven't given me a thing."

Gray laughed. "You are good, I'll give you that. Your approach wasn't very creative at first, but now I see that was just a ploy to catch me off guard. You've yet to reach my level of persuasion, however."

"So _you'd _have gotten the information from yourself by now?"

"I _am _good_._ I don't know." There was amusement in his voice.

Jason took a deep breath and stepped into the room.

Sierra stood beside Gray, holding a syringe. Gray was still tied to the chair. Slashes of red, interspersed with bruises, marred his face and bare torso. His eye and lip were swollen. Blood streaked his tan pants, and pooled on the floor around the legs of the chair.

On the bed beside Sierra's sequined bag lay several knives and other painful-looking instruments, a few syringes, and a bottle of pills.

Without turning around, Sierra said, "Hi, Jason. I've put a lot of pressure on him, as you can see, but so far he's been unforthcoming."

Jason glanced at Gray. He felt an unexpected dash of pity, along with a generous amount of disgust. He looked away before Gray could catch his eyes.

"I want to talk to you for a moment."

"To me, or my tormentor?" said Gray. Jason ignored him.

Sierra turned to face Jason. "Sure." She turned on her heel and stepped out into the hallway with him. "I see you're feeling better."

"The pills had something to do with it, right?"

She nodded. "Those pills work miracles. What is it, Jason?"

"I don't think we should be doing this."

"Doing what?"

"Interrogating him like this. There has to be a better way."

"There is, if we have time to map out a complete psych profile and attack his mental weaknesses. Unfortunately, we don't have that kind of time. Even if we had more time with him, I wonder if we'd make much progress. He's a tough nut to crack." She shook her head. "In a way, you're right. Simple pain won't work on him, not in the amount of time we have. I've got to have a strategy, concentrating on his weaknesses. The trouble is, I'm not sure what his weaknesses are."

Without warning, Jason's vision swam; he almost stumbled to his knees. Sierra grasped his arm, steadied him. "We need to get some calories in you. Just a moment." She stepped back into the room; Jason watched from the shadows of the doorway as she took the bottle of pills, and told Gray to open his mouth. She poured a couple in, and then gave him a drink of water from the water bottle.

She stepped back out, and helped Jason downstairs.

As they sat around the kitchen table, Sierra handed him a ration bar. "Not the best tasting, but good for getting you back on your feet."

He took it; he was hungry, but at the same time, the thought of eating made his stomach turn. He knew he needed to eat in order to get his strength up, so he slowly lifted the bar to his mouth and took a bite.

"Not too bad," he said after he swallowed. Whether it would stay down was another matter.

She nodded. "I'd rather have bacon and eggs for breakfast, but I don't think there's any in the fridge."

Sierra leaned her arms on the table across from him, her dark eyes earnest. "I really don't enjoy what I'm doing, you know. Torture has always been distasteful to me; I'd rather go up against someone in a fair fight. There's only one way I can get through it—shut out any vestiges of a conscience and listen to the darkest parts of who I am."

"I don't like the sound of that."

"I don't like myself when I'm in that mode—I become what I hate. I become like_ him_. But I have to make that sacrifice if I want to finish this job. I want to help save your town almost as much as you do."

The clock on the opposite wall ticked into the silence. It was 6:00 a.m. Jason wondered if his father and Connie had gotten his messages. He wished he hadn't lost his cell phone after Gray had knocked him unconscious; he realized they might not know whether to call his phone or Sierra's number.

His eyes strayed to Sierra's arms, her scars evident in the early morning light from the kitchen window. He wondered what had happened, but didn't want to ask her again. One thing was certain, deep pain was buried in her past. If nothing else, Jason knew what that kind of pain did to a person. It dug deep into your soul, implanting a sliver of darkness that could never be yanked out without taking a considerable amount of soul with it.

She caught his gaze; hardness shuttered across her eyes, daring him to intrude further. He looked away and asked something he'd been wondering. "Were those pills you gave Gray—"

"The same ones I gave you? Yes. Only a temporary mercy while I figure out what to do with him. You wouldn't want to brainstorm with me, would you? Maybe we can discover an effective method that doesn't involve sheer brutality, which I'm not a fan of in the first place. We need to get past his defenses somehow."

Jason thought for a moment. A persistent ache drummed at the base of his skull, and more aches had awakened across his body, but he wanted to do something for a change. Bring about a solution.

Something popped into his mind. "He told me what he fears. When he—had me in the cellar."

"Which is?"

"He told me what almost broke him in prison. The lack of freedom. Being in solitary."

"Hm. We could go that route—though with limited time, it might not work. But fears are the best weaknesses to work with. We may just have found a crack in that impenetrable shell of his."

While Gray slept, they devised a plan between them. And for the first time in what seemed like a long time, hope leaped in Jason's heart, a small yet steady flame.


	13. Darkness

Yes, this is a dark chapter. Possibly the darkest yet, in a way. But it will not be long until the dawn breaks.

* * *

Jason looked down at Gray, slumped in the chair, still asleep. Revulsion swept through him. There was no humanity in this man, no mercy. Yet Jason was giving him mercy.

_I hope you enjoy it_, thought Jason. _Because you deserve a lot worse._

Jason hoped that this plan would work. Perhaps the only way to make Gray give in was through as much pain as possible, as he had given others—

But no, this would probably work better than brute force anyway.

Sierra stepped into the room. She undid the knots around Gray's wrists and ankles, and then slung him over her shoulder. "Are you sure you're up to this?" she asked Jason. "I can probably do it myself."

Jason shook his head. "I'm feeling much better." It was true that he was feeling stronger, although the pain was returning with a vengeance.

He took Gray's ankles, Sierra took his arms, and they trudged down the stairs. Jason struggled for breath by the time they got to the ground floor, but tried not to show it. One thing was certain, he didn't want to show any weakness when Gray woke up.

They carried him to the trapdoor under the stairway. Despite himself, fear attacked him when he looked into the gaping black hole he'd climbed out of a few hours before.

"I can take it from here," said Sierra.

"No, I can make it." They descended the stairs, and laid Gray on the metal table where Jason had been bound. Sierra had cleaned the blood away, but terror and evil still breathed through the place.

Sierra tied Gray's wrists and ankles to the legs of the table, and then blindfolded him. Then they went back up, leaving Gray in complete darkness.

They left him there for two hours, long enough for him to wake up and wonder where he was. Jason paced, debating whether to call his father and Connie again. Maybe he should just walk out the door, hitch a ride back home or something. But as long as Sierra had Gray, she had a chance of finding out what he knew. It was still a longshot. And Jason wasn't sure what he could do, other than wait for the information. But if helping Sierra interrogate Gray was the only way to save the town, save the woman he loved, he'd gladly do it. He longed to see Connie, reassure himself she was okay, but saving her was infinitely more important. This was a much more pleasant sacrifice than what he'd been willing to make hours earlier, in Gray's hands—hold out until the others could figure out a plan.

If all went well, he might have the information in a few hours, and he could go home triumphant. Until then, he had little to offer. They knew he was okay, that was all he could tell them. But at the same time, he wanted to hear Connie's voice…

By the time he decided to ask Sierra for her phone, she was upstairs, talking to someone, presumably Vivian. Jason sat back in one of the chairs, and dusted off an old book that had been sitting beneath the lampstand. It was entitled _The Hiding Place_. He had read it before, a long time ago. He flipped the pages open. And became immersed in Corrie's story. But throughout the beginning hung the specter of dread of what the future would bring—Nazis, concentration camps, so much suffering. It pierced his heart with a sharp ache; he knew suffering much more intimately now, although compared to a concentration camp, his experiences were hardly worth mentioning.

Sierra came back down the stairs. "That woman," she said. "First she's hands-off, and now she's dictating what I'm supposed to do. I need flexibility. If she wants results by the end of the day, I'll give her results. But I'll get them my way." Her eyes flashed.

Jason set down the book, intending to pick up where he left off later.

Sierra gestured to the trap door. "Shall we?"

Jason nodded, though he would much rather have continued reading the book.

In the cellar, light filtered in through the trapdoor, illuminating the figure on the metal table. So still, it could have been a dead body, waiting for an autopsy. As Jason stepped closer, the rise and fall of the man's chest told him he was still alive.

Jason hung back in the darkness while Sierra stepped over to Gray with a quick click of her heels, tore off his blindfold, and turned on the light. "Good morning, Starr. How do you like your new home?"

The figure on the table shook rhythmically. Jason realized he was laughing. The sound built until it filled the room, ringing off the walls.

"You can't defeat me like this, you know," said Gray. "I learned how to conquer my fear in prison. Nothing you do to me will make me betray Will."

"But he has already betrayed you, hasn't he?" said Sierra. "He abandoned you in prison. He could have broken you out, but he didn't lift a finger to help you. That is the price for your failure isn't it? You've been trying to get back in his good graces ever since you failed the first time. No wonder he didn't want to reinstate you."

"Will chose me because I am the best. That hasn't changed."

"Stop deluding yourself. Look at where you are. Look at how many times you have failed. The only thing you have left is your pride, as pathetic as that is. Stop protecting the one who abandoned you. He isn't worth it."

Gray's lip twitched. "I am not protecting Will for his own sake. His vision for the world can burn for all I care. The only one I am loyal to is myself, and I will not betray my employer because to do so would be betraying everything that I am. As for my supposed failure—a lot of it has been simply the luck of the draw. There is only so much in your environment you can control—though I can control more than most."

"You know you will give in eventually."

"But will it be in time? I doubt anything you can do to me will get you results in twenty-four hours."

"It won't matter if I don't get results in twenty-four hours. You will stay down here until I get what I want."

"Even then it will be too late. In a day, Will will have the weapons that he wants."

Jason stepped forward. "My father and I won't give in."

"I was wondering when you'd step out of the shadows, Jason. I don't happen to know who my accomplice is—Will is too savvy for that—but I do know that the bombs will target the ones you love most. Connie came out a little singed last time—what do you think will happen next time? I think her injury will be a little more permanent."

Jason lunged forward, hands clenched to keep from strangling Gray lying so serenely on the table. Hatred burned through him. If this man had ever had an ounce of humanity, it had been seared out of him a long time ago.

"So you don't know who your accomplice is," said Sierra. "Do you know anything about his plans? Where the bombs will be placed?"

"As I said, they will be placed wherever people are that Jason and his father care most about. My understanding is that Connie is pretty immobile right now—a convenient target, if you ask me." Gray smiled.

Blood-red hatred blinded Jason as he pressed his fingers against Gray's windpipe, the throbbing pulse signifying the life of his worst enemy. The enemy struggled, gasped for air. But Jason did not relent. Not until a slap stung across his cheek.

A laugh, low and raspy, ending in a cough. "Way to control your attack dog, eh, Sierra?"

Jason stepped back into the darkness, trembling from head to foot. _I wouldn't have killed him,_ he told himself. _I wouldn't have gone that far—I hope. But now he sees that his words can wound me as surely as a knife can. I can't afford to lose control again, show him any weakness. What I just did did not help the investigation in the least. But perhaps he will underestimate me now…_

Jason stepped back into the circle of light, though he would rather have been anywhere else.

"Where is Will?" said Sierra.

"You may be good, but you might as well give up now. Even restrained like this, my will is stronger than yours will ever be. You have so many weaknesses, the both of you, I can see it written across your faces, plain as day. Empathy! I will never see how letting someone take over a part of you is a strength. I don't need empathy to see your weaknesses and exploit them.

"Sierra—you think I haven't seen your scars? We've been in intimate contact since yesterday evening. Where did you get them, if I may ask?"

Her face hardened. "I am the one asking the questions."

"I'm inclined to think those scars have an interesting story behind them. I'm not going to tell you my secrets, so we could pass the time that way."

Sierra whipped out her gun. Aimed it at his head. "If you aren't going to answer any questions, I could end this right now. End your miserable life with your ultimate failure." She clicked back the safety. Her hand trembled slightly.

Jason touched her arm. She flinched, whirled on him, gun in his face. The anger in her eyes melted into apology. "I'm sorry, Jason. I just—need some air." She jaunted back up the stairs.

Jason looked down at Gray for a moment; Gray looked back up with an insufferable smirk. Then Jason followed Sierra up the stairs, and closed the trapdoor.

Sierra was sitting at the kitchen table, her pistol lying in front of her, sliding her finger absently along its barrel. She looked up at him, eyes narrowed. "Before you say anything, I want to make it clear why it seemed I overreacted." She gestured to the chair opposite her. Jason sat down.

She turned her arms over, palms facing up. The early morning light illuminated the edges of the ragged rope-scars around her wrists, and the tiny crisscrossing ridges, a horrific number of them tracing the underside of her arms.

"I lost control—and there's no excuse for that—but you know how Starr is. He zeroes in on your weaknesses. He may not have empathy, but he does have intuition. These scars are the one thing that he could mention that would break my concentration. I've tried to get that under control—my everyday image is a mask in a way, to keep people from noticing this," she touched her arm, "and the…damage beneath the surface. I wouldn't even been telling you this, except you know, in a small part at least, what it is like to be the target of degradation by another human being. If you can call them human. Starr is yours, and mine was—" her eyes flickered. "Starr reminds me of _him_ in many ways."

She sighed. "I don't want to go into detail. I'm sure you don't want me to either. I lived on the streets of Phnom Penh until I was five. I didn't, and still don't, have any idea who my parents were; I just know one of them must have been part Caucasian. I basically had the freedom of the streets and could dodge in and out of the market, stealing fruit with the gang I hung out with. The bigger kids protected me when I couldn't protect myself. But one day, I was separated from them. That was when the predator chose to strike. I still think of him as…a deadly cobra, smooth, oily, even seductive, but with a poisonous bite. He….took me in. For the first few months, I just hung out with another gang of kids, this time all girls, in his cement compound. But then—he started…selling me. Men would come to him and—I'm sure you get the idea."

The unspeakable evil that would make someone do something like that to a child—Jason couldn't imagine it, and didn't want to. "So…you were only five?"

"I was. At first, I barely knew what was going on, and I couldn't resist even if I wanted to. But then, I started to try to escape, taste the freedom I'd once had beyond those walls of darkness. When I did—" She touched the scars with one hand, delicately, as if afraid of wounding them. "He hurt me. But it was nothing compared to when I was twelve and…he started to want me for himself. When I tried to escape—he'd tie me for hours in a dark closet and—" Tears came to her eyes; she blinked them away.

"Suffice it to say, I got out of there. One day, I saw my chance and took it. I found a good man who took me in, helped give me some semblance of a normal life, and taught me how to protect myself from ever being taken again. Throughout all that time, I burned with plans for revenge—when I had enough training under my belt, I'd seek_ him _out. When I was seventeen, I did. But someone else had already taken my revenge from me. Another one of the girls had shot him while he was sleeping. I don't begrudge her her own revenge. But ever since then, I've been…looking for his face, expecting to find it in those who I must deal with. It satisfies for a little while. But then I feel this hunger to find him, feed him the justice he deserves. Which can never, ever happen. But Starr—he reminds me so much of the one who enslaved me. I'd understand if you'd want your own revenge." She looked at him meaningfully.

Do _I want revenge?_ thought Jason. _I want justice, and I want to end this. But revenge? It's not something I have ever believed in. I need information from him. That's it. Then—I don't care what happens to him as long as he never escapes. _

"So," said Sierra, "Would you like to take over the interrogation for me? I'm not sure I can handle myself down there yet. I've got to figure out a way to save face."

"I—I'm not sure—"

She waved a hand. "You don't have to. But time is precious."

"You don't have to tell me that," he said, a little more sharply than he'd intended. He looked at the clock on the wall above the sink. It was 9:00. A shock stabbed his heart. It had been about 9 when he'd come into Whit's End, oblivious to what was going to happen in just a few minutes. He longed for those sweet moments before the bomb blew his world apart.

"I'll do it."

"Good. I'll join you in a little bit."

He turned to leave. She said, "Be careful down there, Jason."

He nodded. And descended into the cellar.

His whole body felt weighed down. His cuts and burns were insistent pains bursting across his skin; but he couldn't take the pills unless he wanted to sleep, and the salve would have fogged his mind. He needed his mind to be sharp.

Gray turned his head as he approached. "So, is Sierra giving up on me?"

"She'll be back. I'm just helping her out for a little bit."

Gray laughed. "You as an interrogator? This I have to see." Gray's face was lopsided because of the swelling around his eyes and mouth; his broken nose had shoved the cartilage to the side, marring his almost too perfectly-even features.

"You are finally in the position I was in, Gray." _I have to make this count,_ he thought. _There is literally no time to waste. I can't let this get personal. This is about saving the people that I love. Not about revenge._

"You might as well give up. I know for a fact you don't have the stomach to do what needs to be done."

"Why don't you tell me what would make you break? You're the one who's the expert on yourself."

Gray pursed his lips. "Hm. That's something even I would not be sure of. I've conquered most of my fears."

"You said 'most'. There_ is_ something you fear."

"But you're deluded if you think I'll reveal it to you."

What fears were there? Fear of losing someone you loved would not work with Gray. That was the fear foremost in Jason's mind. But what about when Jason was in the Shed? Fear of….fear of breaking. Fear of weakness exposed, shivering with raw skin under the merciless gaze of his tormentor—fear of becoming nothing but something to be trampled on, less than human, something with a shriveled, cowed soul—

Pride. Not pride, as in ego, though that had something to do with it, but the pride of self-hood, what made someone human. Gray might not have much humanity in him, but pride was evident in every word he spoke. To strip this source of strength away, leaving nothing left—

Could Jason do this to a person? Even someone as far gone as Gray—who didn't seem to have a redeemable soul?

_This is for the ones I love. _

_But—what would Connie think? What would my father think?_

A small voice returned: _They never have to know._

"Having second thoughts, Jason?" said Gray. "You must be tired after our session last night. Those injuries must be hurting you. I do wish I would have had more time to work on you; it's a shame Sierra interrupted us. We were having such _fun_ together."

Anger blazed across his mind. Some people had forfeited their right to be treated as if they were still human. Gray had no feelings left to damage, just his horrible, insufferable pride. He was like the monster who had enslaved Sierra- the kind of person who fed off of other's pain, enjoyed it. To hurt him in order to gain information to save the people Jason loved—there was no comparison. He would choose the ones he loved every time, even if it meant ignoring the small insistent voice at the back of his mind.

Jason dashed up the stairs, and looked in the cupboards. There. In the back of one of them. A container of salt. He snatched it up and asked Sierra for a knife. She handed it to him, looking at him curiously. "I see you have a plan."

Jason nodded. He ran back down the stairs with his weapons. Without looking at Gray's expression, he unwrapped the bandage near the bullet wound, and cut off some of the blood-soaked material. It was an ugly wound, just above the knee. Jason recoiled, his stomach turning over.

"You don't have the fortitude for a job like this," said Gray. "Go back home, boy, and enjoy the last few hours you have with your girl."

"You will tell me what I want to know. If you don't tell me now—I'll have to move to your knee." He lifted the container of salt over Gray's wounded chest, and poured.

A ragged scream shook the house. Gray writhed against the ropes, choking.

Jason stepped back. The salt container dropped from his hand with a 'thunk' to the cement. White salt spilled out onto the floor like ashes.

Sickening horror clutched him, and he raced upstairs. The scream still echoed in his ears. All he could think was that he had caused it. He had deliberately caused someone else's pain—someone who was bound and helpless. It didn't even register that it was Gray. He was human, someone with thoughts and feelings and a heartbeat—and Jason had done this to him. He ran up to the second floor, and threw himself beside the bed, forehead resting in the stiff musty quilt.

Dry sobs shook him until finally tears came, burning into the wounds on his face. He clutched the material in his fist. Shame filled him. _God_—he began to pray. But God would never have sanctioned something like this. An eye for an eye—no. Love your enemies. Pray for those who persecute you—The words marched through his head like a mantra. _I have not even tried to do this,_ he realized. _My relationship with God has suffered, and I've shrugged it off because I wanted to keep on hating Gray—because what he did to me was unforgivable. I didn't hate Nadira; I owed her my life for the life I took from her. I was willing to give my life for her in part because of my guilt. If Gray would have been the target of a bullet, how willing would I have been? Would I have hesitated, let him be killed? Ever since that day, I've closed myself off from any thought of forgiveness. To love someone like Gray was—unthinkable. This subtle darkness has been growing inside of me and eating at my soul…Though Connie took me out of the darkness, it was just a temporary remedy. This hatred will keep growing, until—until Gray wins. This will be his final triumph._

_I have given in. I have become like him._

_How can I make this right?_ Jason wondered. _Is there a way to go back?_

_No. It can't be undone. _

_What about going forward? Shed the guilt like old clothes and move on—do what has to be done? Let the hatred and anger become fully a part of me—because if I do this, it will not be for the 'greater good', as if that were an excuse. It will not even be for the ones I love. It will be for myself—for revenge. Because he hurt me—hurt me so deeply. _

_But this is hurting me even more. I have let my soul become damaged—is there any way out? Dear God—please. Please let there be a way to make this right. _

It is hard, my son, said a voice, softer than the edges of a whisper. Bearing your own sin is worse than receiving the sin of others. But there is a way out. You just have to be willing. That is all I ever ask.

_But I can't!_ said Jason. _I don't know how. I mean—I don't know how to_ want_ to. Gray does not deserve forgiveness._

Neither did you.

_That's true, _thought Jason. _The only difference between me and Gray is that I have accepted you—but that is no reason to pretend I'm superior. Without you, we are all the same as Gray. _

Jason rose. Wiped away his tears. He wasn't certain what to do; he wasn't even certain how willing he was to forgive Gray. There was this hard block in his heart, made up of agony and hatred, which seemed indestructible. God could destroy it of course, but Jason had to let him do it. What did forgiveness even look like? Should he go down and ask Gray's forgiveness, after he'd just finished torturing him? Just the thought of doing so seemed preposterous.

But that didn't make it any less right.

Jason descended the stairs, heart heavy. He felt numb, drained to the core. Sierra stood in the doorway as he came through the living room. "Are you okay?"

Jason tried to answer, but couldn't. His voice was trapped deep in his throat.

"I'm about to take over," she said. "But you got a scream out of him—you must be pretty good. Maybe I'll join and observe."

"I'd rather…do this alone."

She shrugged. "If it works, have at it."

As Jason walked past the lampstand, he glimpsed the book on it. _The Hiding Place_. There had been something in the end of it about forgiveness… He walked past it, then wondered if he should have looked at it, to see if he could find what it said.

In the basement, which smelled like damp dirt and the metallic tang of blood, Jason walked over to Gray.

"That last effort was pretty good," said Gray, voice ragged with pain. "But running away like a little boy spoiled the effect."

_This man isn't going to make it easy,_ thought Jason. _But then, it was never going to be. _

He looked down at the man, his half-cocked eyebrow, shrewd nearly colorless eyes, damaged face. Though he did feel guilt for what he'd done, he couldn't manufacture any sympathy for him. Pity, maybe. The hard blank wall of hatred had cauterized sympathy toward Gray long ago.

_Of course, love is not just a feeling. What is it then?_

_An action. But what am I supposed to do to show love to him? Stop Sierra from interrogating him? Give him food, water, medicine?_

_Or—_

The thought hit him like a shockwave. The greatest act of love would be to release him.

_But I can't_! thought Jason._ Let Gray go?! When all we have wanted all this time was to keep him locked away where he could never hurt anyone—_

_Letting him hurt others isn't showing them love. _

_But maybe—maybe I need to do the right thing, and God will take care of the rest. _

_Will he immediately repent? Probably not. He'll see it as a weakness of a compromised mind. He might even kill me. He might go on a rampage and kill Sierra and Connie and my father and—_

_Should I do this, God? Is this the right path to take?_

A gentle press against his heart, whether God or his conscience, answered in the affirmative.

Jason reached out, touched the rope around Gray's wrist.

Past the point of no return.

He tugged at each of the ropes in turn, and pulled them free.


	14. Negotiations

Second to the last chapter. I may post the next chapter tonight, just to have it all up. :) (see profile for other possible notes)

* * *

Gray didn't move for a moment. Then he said, "So you're putting me in a different position? That's a little dangerous, isn't it?" He stirred, sitting up on the table, groaning in pain.

Jason hesitated, shocked at his own actions. Then he grasped Gray's hand. To his surprise, he didn't feel revulsion at the touch. He felt…empathy toward the man that he had never felt before. He knew what it felt like to be tortured, barely able to move because of pain. Yes, Gray had been the cause of Jason's, and yes, there were still vestiges of the old hatred, but not the hard burning darkness from before, that Jason had hardly realized had been slowly overtaking him, twisting everything good that it touched.

"Can you stand?" said Jason.

"I—I'm not sure," said Gray, his usual self-assured voice shaken. "Why? What are you going to do to me next?"

"I'm not going to do anything to you. I'm going to let you go."

Gray looked at him for a second, his expression blank, as if he didn't quite comprehend what Jason was saying.

"Here. I'll help you out." He grasped Gray's arm, and helped him off of the table. Gray faltered as soon as his feet hit the floor; Jason kept him from falling as he tried to support himself on one leg.

"So you're really letting me go," said Gray. "I must have broken your mind. What you're doing…doesn't make any sense."

Jason gave a short laugh. "I have to agree with you there. But I'm doing it anyway."

"Why?"

Jason hesitated. He knew the kind of reaction he'd get. "Because….I forgive you, Gray."

Gray laughed. "You are crazy. Your so-called faith has stripped all reason from your mind. In any case, I don't think Sierra's going to let me go that easily."

Sierra's voice filtered down into the cellar. "How's it going?" she asked. "What—" she stopped short on the top of the stairs. "What are you doing?!"

"I'm….letting him go."

"What do you mean—letting him go?"

"I don't think we're going to get information this way. I don't think we _should, _either."

"So you're back to that again." She descended the stairs. "I know it's not part of your normal principles, but your town is in danger, and so is the woman you love. This man's–comfort is not worth their lives. You know it isn't."

"Of course I want to save them. But this is not the way."

"Well then. I still have a job to do, you know. I'm going to have to put him back where he was." She stepped toward Gray, who was leaning against the table, keeping the weight off of his injured leg. Gray backed away, but he couldn't outmaneuver Sierra. She grabbed his arm. But he lashed out with his other fist, caught her across the jaw.

"Don't you dare touch me again." She ripped out her pistol, and slammed it across his mouth. He stumbled to the cement floor. Then, she kicked him in the side, again and again, savage force behind every kick. Gray tried to curl up, unable to defend himself.

Jason knew where Sierra's rage was coming from—a place deep inside that had never healed, born from the horrors she'd grown up in. Even so, Jason couldn't let her do this. Not if he was going to follow through with what he had begun. He grasped Sierra's arm, trying to pull her away. She yanked her arm out of his grasp. He pulled again, harder—he didn't want to hurt her.

She whirled on him. "What? You want to save this creature?"

Jason stepped between her and Gray. "I won't let you hurt him."

Her eyes narrowed into dark slivers. "So be it." She smashed her pistol into Jason's skull.

Pain burst across his vision. He saw the ground rush up at him, glimpsed Sierra's boots, standing in blood. Then, once again, blackness consumed him.

J

"Hello," said Will.

"Hello," said Whit.

"The bomb is set to go off by this time tomorrow. Maybe sooner."

"What do you mean by that?"

"You never know. This may be the last time I call, so you'd better make the most of it. Are you going to give me Zephyr?" Whit glanced at Eugene, who was ramming the force of Zephyr against the defenses of Will's phone. He was leaning over the computer, typing faster than Whit thought humanly possible, his face thin, drawn, dark circles under his eyes from staying up all night, learning Zephyr's labyrinth of applications inside out.

"I…might be willing to make a deal," said Whit. He had to keep Will talking as long as possible.

"What kind of deal?"

"If you will defuse the bombs, I would like to talk with a representative of yours. I assume one is in town?"

"Well, I could agree to that, though I'd rather deal with you over the phone. And I'm not sure what it would accomplish—unless you are trying to stall for some reason."

"I would just rather speak face-to-face. And if you defuse the bombs, I would have a certain program to offer of my own."

"So you are the one that has it. I was wondering whether you'd given it to someone else for safekeeping, or kept it yourself. I wouldn't trust something like that to anyone else either."

"It doesn't belong to anyone—I'm just the one our team voted to keep it."

"Of course. But this could work…Let me see. I will have to call my employee—if you would excuse me."

Whit looked at Eugene to see if he'd broken through. Eugene held up a hand, thumb and forefinger marking a quarter of an inch, and mouthed, 'Almost.'

"Wait," said Whit, hoping his voice hadn't sounded too frantic. "How do I know you'll hold up your end of the deal?"

"You don't. You'll just have to trust me."

"But—I need a guarantee of some sort, or this will be in vain."

"Oh, very well. My employee will bring the bomb when you meet, and show that it's been deactivated."

"What about the others? The ones that aren't timed?"

"That's enough, Whit. I'm not going to bend over backwards for you. I want what you have in my hands before I grant you any more favors."

_This man really is an egomaniac,_ thought Whit. He looked at Eugene. Eugene was still typing furiously.

"Where shall we meet?" asked Whit.

"How about the courthouse steps. One hour.

"Remember, if you double cross me, I may not leave much of the town left. How would you like that on your conscience?" He hung up.

Whit stood up, walked over to Eugene. Touched his shoulder. "Do you…have it?"

Eugene sat back with an exhausted sigh. "I do." He looked up, a tired smile spreading across his face.

Whit leaned forward, looked at the code. Embedded in it were the answers, what they had been waiting for all this time. Will's GPS location. His texts. His contact lists. But most of all, his identity. Eugene scrolled down, and showed Whit a name in the text. Joseph Lang. If his contact lists were any indicator, it was former Senator Joseph Lang. Whit only knew about him as a proponent of a bill Whit had opposed; he had a vague recollection of blond hair and beard scattered with gray, a pleasant face and somewhat nervous demeanor. He certainly didn't look the part of a potential dictator.

Whit sat back down. He could hardly get this through his head. They had the data that would bring Will down. "We should make copies of that," said Whit.

"I'm on it," said Eugene.

Eugene had done so much over the past long hours; Whit knew he should take over, but he was unable to move at the moment. He was still in shock.

And they might have Will's identity, but it wasn't over. They needed to contact the proper authorities. Even then, it might not be enough time to find and defuse the bomb.

"I'll call my contacts at the Agency," said Whit. "They'll be glad to hear about this, and they won't be too concerned by the fact we got this by…questionable means."

Whit dialed the NSA, and told them that he'd send the data ASAP, which Eugene did. Then he waited for an hour—an eternity—before the Agency got back to him and told him that they were on their way to pick up Will. Senator Lang.

Whit knew he should feel joyful—he did, but it was a guarded joy. This was not over. And he could not fully celebrate until Jason had returned home, and everyone was finally safe.


	15. Struggles

Jason woke up. He lay there for a moment, the cement cool beneath his face. It spun back to him what had happened. Untying Gray, defending him, getting knocked out by Sierra. It was still unbelievable, what he'd done. Gray had been his enemy, and now—well, Gray was probably still his enemy, but Jason had rejected his hatred. Violence only bred more violence. _I always knew that,_ thought Jason,_ and practiced it…to a certain extent. But I'd never been tested like this…it is beyond human strength to forgive what Gray did. Only God could have helped me, once I realized what I needed to do._

He crawled to his hands and knees, aches burning through every part of him. He began to wish he'd stayed unconscious; being awake was much more painful. But he had to move in order to get out of here. If he could.

He looked around. The cellar was deserted. Even most of the blood had been cleared away.

Jason climbed to his feet, and made his way cautiously to the first floor. Thankfully, the trapdoor was unlocked. Out from behind the shadows of the stairway, the living room was suffused with light. Birds sung in the large oak tree. The yellow curtains flapped in the breeze.

He went upstairs, and it was just as deserted and just as clean, except for a few dark stains on the hardwood floor.

Back downstairs, Jason found a note on the table, ripped from bright pink notepaper, bordered with the same anime characters from Sierra's phone. It said,

_Jason - I hope there's no hard feelings. I have a job to do, and I'm going to a more secure location. I will make sure to contact you if Gray gives me the information in time; you can't object if I'm the one to obtain it, can you? I can't pretend to understand what you did—I could never have helped my enemy like that. But I will always remember you. We worked well together, for a little while. Maybe our paths will cross again sometime._

_ Kisses and hugs, _

_Sierra_

Jason folded the letter, and put it in his pocket. He steeled himself for the exertion, and walked several miles down the gravel road to the nearest farmhouse. Almost gave the woman hanging clothes in the yard a heart attack. Covered and bruises and bandages, he knew he must look like a crazy person from a horror movie.

But once the woman got over her shock, she let him borrow her phone. He called his father, who told him the news that they'd found out Will's identity. Through a computer program, not a weapon of violence. The right way had prevailed after all.

Then his father told him there was still a time bomb. It would go off in less than 24 hours, unless they found and deactivated it. Jason wished he was there to help find it, but he'd have to wait for his father to pick him up. Even if he had a car to drive, he didn't know if he'd be able to make it home.

While Jason waited, the woman gave him one of her husband's shirts, and he thanked her profusely. It was a little big for him but he was glad to have it, even though it did tug at the bandages whenever he moved. She also gave him some aspirin, which dulled the pain a little, though Sierra's medicine had spoiled him and he couldn't help wishing for some of that salve right now.

While the woman pickled cucumbers in the kitchen, he sat on the porch and called Connie.

"Jason? Is that you? Are you all right?"

"I'm…alive," he said. "I should have told you more on the phone, Connie. I'm sorry. I just-so much has—" His breath caught in his throat. He closed his eyes, trying to hold back the tears that threatened to overwhelm him. Now that he'd escaped, the tension that had been holding him together was threatening to dissipate completely.

"Jason! Are you okay? I wish I could help—" Tears infused her own voice.

"I should have told you everything from the beginning. I should've filled you in on my plan. I think…you are good at being my conscience, when mine is a little faulty. I've messed up a lot—and I want to tell you everything. Whit's coming to get me as soon as he can. If these people will let me use their minutes, I'll stay on the line until he gets here. Unless you are too tired."

"I don't think I'll ever get tired of hearing your voice," she said fervently.

Jason told her about their ill-fated plan, and how Gray had kidnapped him again, tortured him. How Sierra had rescued him, and the tables had been turned. About the whole agonizing night, and what he had done.

He was apprehensive about what she'd think. But he didn't want to hold anything back from her, ever again.

"I became what he was," he said. "It was difficult, but I was able to overcome my distaste for that kind of thing because I hated him so much. And I had a good excuse—I wanted to save you. But that was just an…excuse for what I felt, the hatred of everything that he was, everything that he'd done to me, poured into that moment. I'll never escape the shame of it. And I shouldn't."

There was silence for a moment. Then she said, "He did all those things to you. I have…at least imagined him harm."

"After—doing what I did, I had to face what I had become. Hatred had made me do that. The only antidote to it was—love. Not just forgive Gray, but do something about it. And so—I let him go."

"You did?"

"He wasn't in any shape to go anywhere, and Sierra came down and tried to restrain him again, and I—defended him. So she knocked me out. I came to about an hour ago, and walked to this farmhouse."

"So you didn't get my message?"

"I didn't have my phone. I lost it."

"Oh. I called you and told you how much I loved you and missed you, Jason. But you didn't even get it, and—I've been feeling so useless here—"

"Connie, stop it. You just need to recover, you know that. That's your job right now. And—I felt your love, even if I didn't hear your voice. I know you love me, Connie, and it's the only thing that has kept me sane these past few months. What I would do without you—I have no idea. I love you. I need everything that you are."

A sniff. "Jason—"

"Yeah?"

"Guess what. I love you, too."

He sat there in silence, imagining her on the other end of the line, content to just be with her, even though they were miles away.

A car pulled up a few minutes later, and he reluctantly said goodbye, and gave the phone back to the woman, thanking her and telling her he'd give her something for her trouble.

"No, you don't have to do that!" she said. "I was just glad to help out."

Jason didn't have anything to give her at the moment, but he made a mental note to give her something later. Her kindness had been like a lighthouse of hope after being immersed in a sea of darkness.

To his surprise, it wasn't Whit who was driving, but Penny. He slid in beside her. "Hi, Jason," she said.

"Thanks for picking me up."

"Whit didn't think he could make it here without falling asleep behind the wheel." She looked at him, eyes widening. "Oh, Jason. Is there anything else I can do?"

"Just get me home. I need to find a bomb."

Penny sped down those back roads in a cloud of dust, going much faster than the speed limit. Jason hoped a cop didn't show up, but at least if they were from Odyssey, they would probably have let them go.

Jason met his father in front of Whit's End, and teamed up with Eugene, Wooton and Penny to look for the bomb. They looked all around town, finding several false alarms, but never the real thing. By the end of the day, consciousness was threatening to leave him, but Jason forced himself to keep going. A few times, his friends asked if he was okay, whether he wanted to go to a hospital, but he didn't want them know the extent of his injuries. He could rest when this was over, and everyone was out of danger.

In the end, it was a kid that found it. He'd been playing near the abstract sculpture at the mall, when he'd seen something strange hiding beneath its curved shadows. He'd told his mother, who called the police.

Jason raced to the scene. He knew about bombs, and didn't want others to risk their lives if he had the best chance of defusing it.

It was a large block of C4, with wires and a timer. Jason knelt in front of it, while a skeleton crew of policemen stayed with him.

"You don't have to stay here," said Jason. "I think I have it, but in case it goes off—no sense in more lives being lost."

They left him alone then. Except for one, who insisted on staying as 'backup'.

Jason slowly lowered the wire cutters. The key was to cut the wire from the timer. C4 was pretty stable, but you never knew with bombs. There could be a booby trap. There could be—

_Dear God,_ he prayed. _Please let this work._

He squeezed the wire cutters.

Snip!

The timer stopped. For once, nothing happened.

Jason sat back with relief. And walked out into the night, to cheers and celebration.

His father came up to him, embraced him. Black spots zinged across Jason's vision. Before he knew it, he was sinking to the ground, consciousness breaking apart like shards of glass.

He woke to the steady beep beep beep of a heart monitor, feeling numb and foggy with drugs. The last few days tumbled through his mind, every emotion he'd felt during that time attacking him—fear, anger, guilt. He turned over, trying to escape them—they were too much to deal with right now. And he saw, sitting in the chair beside him, Connie.

Joy filled his heart. Except for the bandage on her temple, she looked wonderful, just a little more pale than usual. When he tried to climb out of bed, she leaped to her feet.

"Oh, no you don't, Jason. The doctor said you're dehydrated, you've got a concussion, you've got an infection—in short, you need to recover. I recall you giving me that advice." She stroked his hair back from his forehead.

"Connie—how are you feeling?"

"They released me just an hour ago, and I came straight here."

"You haven't gone home yet?"

"I wasn't going to go home before I saw you." She knelt beside the bed, sliding her hand into his. "I was watching TV before you woke up. It showed the FBI raiding Will's cabin in Montana."

"So it's…over?" It was impossible to comprehend.

"The police found some more bombs, but they were able to defuse them. But we never found out who set the bombs—you're sure it wasn't Gray?"

"That's what he said. He could have been lying, though. Someone had to have set the timed bomb—he could've done it earlier, before Will told Dad….It is a mystery."

"But this is over, isn't it, Jason? It has to be." Shadows of heartache reflected in her eyes.

"I don't think Gray's going to return. Sierra's not one to let go of a prize." Jason wondered what she was doing with him. Jason would make sure to pray for Gray—and for Sierra.

This adventure might be over, but it would not end with Will's arrest. Jason knew he would always bear the scars. Resentment would threaten to return, burn back into the darkness of hatred. He would have to be on his guard; on earth, of course, the struggle was never really finished. But for now-

Connie leaned over him, pressed her lips to his. And he forgot the pain and sorrow of the past few days, and months, as he closed his eyes, and leaned into the kiss, abandoning himself to this one perfect moment.


End file.
